


Questionable Content, Take Three! *slams that movie thingie shut*

by worddumb



Series: *clears throat* Hey Kid, Heard You Like Questionable Content? [2]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: (once but still important), Attempt at Humor, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Suicidal Thoughts, Violent Thoughts, Yes Really, also discussed ig but thass it, and i hadn't even tagged everything yet, and low-key just thinks of bad things happening to him as justice, anyways every chapter will have relevant tws but proceed with caution, based on online personas, because techno, everyone is a questionable person, i'd like to start the tagline by saying it's not as bad as it appears, i'm such a good it person it's honestly stunning (poses in a bitch way), lemme get to it, oh! i also cuss at you in the title of the second chapter., oh! okay specific plus spoiler, only implied, overuse of paranthesis, s to the l to the a to the v to the e collar)) that makes ya do stuff))), techno had let someone get away with rape in the past, this entire fic btw is teetering at the edge of that, uhh what else, which okay fair but there is such a thing as too far
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:28:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29061324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/worddumb/pseuds/worddumb
Summary: What if, three people incapable of making good choices are fated by the powers that be to meet and go on a cool adventure quest together? I dunno, but this work sure is has an option.edit: i'm sorry you're seeing this again, i just- i just noticed the fucking grammar nightmare in the summary- i can't, this is too funny to fix, i just, i can't- the rest of the work is like practically my magnum opus and this??? man i love this
Series: *clears throat* Hey Kid, Heard You Like Questionable Content? [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2116176
Kudos: 15





	1. Spirited Away but Angsty and I Hadn't Watched The Movie

**Author's Note:**

> yeaaa i'm doing this all over again, from the top this time! congratulate me or something 
> 
> first chapter tws: violent intrusive thoughts lite, kidnapping/abduction, collar makes an entrance and Wilbur's ignorance

Techno is being watched. 

He’s being watched, and has been for the last three days. Now, normally that wouldn’t be a problem, their little town of misfits is nothing if not intense in terms of fun, but the issue is. He still hasn't figured out who’s watching him. Hasn’t caught even a glimpse despite his best attempts. Hasn’t recognized the alien scents now hanging all around his house and fields, which is as reassuring as it is paranoia inducing, and hasn’t managed to think of who else could possibly be after him. 

In the two days that the needles of foreign eyes haven’t left his skin, Techno also hasn’t slept. With all the artifacts and potion ingredients that could help him used up on his and Squid’s meaningless competition, it leaves him in a much worse off shape than usual, for the uptenth time making him regret not learning at least script magic when he had the chance. If his assailants don’t get him, the sleep deprivation sure will. 

On the more positive side, his entire house is squeaky clean, he’d trapped Calvin’s, Deo’s and Squid’s homes with multiple glitter bombs in the most obscure places (to distract from the growing desire to give each and every one of them a fittingly ironic deaths) just because he could and everyone thinks he’s amazing (and also owes him) because he’s doing all their chores for them! If it weren’t for the imminent feeling of doom, staying up so long would’ve been amply worth it. 

Back to the less positive side, he still hasn’t managed to tell anyone. Being no newbie to either allnighters, homicidal thoughts or anxiety, he knows for a fact it’s no influence of those. The question of what is preventing him from speaking hanging over his mind adds quite the exciting flavour to his _light_ _unease_ , if he does say so himself. 

Maybe it’s his conscience, acting up because he’s been letting it. Maybe this whole thing is karma. 

After two and a half days of consideration, Techno settles on it being too mild to count as karmic justice so far. 

On his third night, which happens to be a new moon, he decides to venture into the forest to collect moonshrooms that make for exceptional potato compost and also happen to sell for a whole lot of money. In hindsight, it was not one of his brighter ideas. 

Far from the village and feeling like a corpse, he’s almost surprised he can still sense eyes on his back and be near confident it’s not just mobs. He even catches the rustle of leaves just behind him once or twice. Of course, there’s nothing there when he looks, but maybe if he’d gone to the thicket earlier, or like… Not at night, he could’ve actually done something with that. 

As it is, he’s screwed. His only strategy, by now, is putting on a tough act and praying to the uncaring galaxy until he can get back and ask for help, no matter what or how much it takes, which he should’ve done in the first place. The stupidity of his former actions catches up to him a tad too late, in his opinion. 

He straightens up, a basket of faintly glowing mushrooms in hand. His mouth and snout get covered with a handkerchief by a hand so large it barely registers as such, him reacting too late to the rustling of fabric behind him. Knowing not to inhale, he manages a few tics of earnest struggling that come this close to breaking him free despite his assailant’s size advantage- a silhouette appears in front of his eyes and right-hooks him into a coma. 

**. . . . . . . .**

Techno wakes up with a familiar viscous wash of magic seizing through his entire nervous system. What- he’d gone to the forest whilst being followed. Alone. At night. 

He opens his eyes so fast the darkness of the woodland looks blinding. His attempt to sit up, likewise, fails. 

There’s cloth against his lashes. Small fuzz of moonshroom light where it doesn’t connect with fur are all he can see of the outside world. There’s something nippy going over his torso in a motion soft and soothing, a voice he can barely hear behind his heartbeat following suit: “Shhhh, it’s okay, we mean you no harm! Right, Phil?” 

The voice gets a reply, just as cheery but much calmer: “Yeah, sure.” 

Techno recognizes the replier. He doesn’t remember them. 

“Does the thing work?”- the voice asks Phil. 

“There’s only one way to find out. Technoblade-”- awful stillness fills him- “-go to sleep.” 

**. . . . . . . .**

Techno wakes up and doesn’t open his eyes. 

He’s laying on something soft, and he can’t feel any restraints but a wide choker around his neck. Made of leather, it barely classifies as one, though he’s sure it’s the source of the electric pain and  _ the  _ stillness, so much more intense than he remembers it being, that’d hit him yesterday. Now, laying on a soft mattress, neither that nor the fist to the stomach he can vividly envision feel like they’ve actually happened. 

Whoever got him must’ve used some sort of a recovery potion. They must want him whole and well. They must want him as a slave. 

So much for ‘too mild’. 

Hands touch his ears. He works not to tense but fails spectacularly when noises start flooding in, overwhelming him immediately and making him question his observation skills. Now, he knows that whoever’s got him has magic beyond artifacts, or even scripts. Magic that doesn’t hurt, and as such, magic of a level only ever rumored. His situation, if possible, feels bleaker than it did just a tic ago. 

“Hey, you were right, he is awake!” The person’s voice is too loud and bright for it being so early. Techno can’t help cringing a bit. 

“Yeah, I know this guy pretty well.” 

That does not inspire hope. 

Digging through memory is a bit hard first thing in the morning, more so when someone’s poking his cheeks and talking (‘why’s he not opening his eyes? it’s okay, dude, you don’t have the blindfold anymore’), but Techno manages. The one who claims to know him is Philza, a man he was paired with once in an underground tournament over four years ago. 

Four years. Once. 

If he plays dumb, there’s a chance they’ll leave him alone. After all, who knows how many pink pig mutants with exactly his features has Philza met before? It’s not like he’s already doing the impossible, recognizing Techno through all the expensive, as painful to apply as hammering screws into joints magic or anything. 

Techno opens his eyes, slow and cautious. The mid-day sun filtering through the edges of the canopy burns them either way. He doesn’t have to play up his terror all that much, especially when he focuses on an upside-down face studying his, head cocked to the side, and worrying both lips. Even from where Techno lay, he can see they’re tall even comparatively to him, too tall,  _ too big _ to be human despite bearing no other resemblance to endermen or anything monstrous. Their massive fingers are still prodding at his cheeks. 

“Who are you? Where am I? What did I do?”- what didn’t he- no, not right now, denied- “Please don’t hurt me I’m just a humble potato farmer-”- words jumble out of his mouth in a tangle as he presses into the mattress, away from the fingers. The person above him looks cartoonishly concerned, brows knotted and mouth downturned almost in confusion, while Phil moves closer until he’s in Techno’s field of view, standing next to the tall person. 

“I’m Philza, from Mine and Craft Monday. I’m pretty sure you remember me, we made a great team, the organizers actually had to separate us.” 

“Minecraft?-”- the tall person intersects before Techno can deny or Phil can introduce them- “-Wow, this world is getting weirder and weirder with every turn. First, everyone’s a shorty, now, there’s Minecraft- are you sure this isn’t just a fanfic AU, at this point?” 

Techno opens his mouth to speak before- “-Also, you definitely knew Phil, cause he knows your name is Technoblade!” 

A strong, dreadful wave of magic washes over him. Along with it comes a bubbling, nauseating knot in his stomach, making him lightheaded and draining the last bits of hope out. It’s definitely  _ the _ control spell, one he recognizes from his short time in a freak-show circus, except this time it’s stronger and he doesn’t have a dozen like-minded individuals to aid his escape. This one binds to his name, to him personally- he doesn’t get much time to ponder. Phil elbows the head of the tall person, glaring down until they say, hurried: “Oh right, order dismissed.” 

The energy of the choker-bound spell letting up on his body feels too much like relief, almost forcing his muscles to go lax. There are still gigantic hands on his face, which at this point feel simply forgotten by their owner.

Considering there’s no way he’s lying his way out of this, Techno gives up all pretenses in favor of being done: “How did you even Find me?” 

Phil crouches down next to the tall person, underlining just how massive they are as he’s about half their height, and pats their shoulder: “It was all this guy, actually. I don’t know how, but he’s got a whole-ass internal compass pointing to stuff,”-“It’s how I’ve found Phil, too”-“It was kinda freaky, how well he managed to describe you when we first met.” 

“Whatever reason you need me for, it won’t work,”- unless they just want him for his body- he forces the thought out- “I’ve done nothin’ but farm potatoes in the last three years, I have no skill, leave me alone.” 

“Yeah about that-”- the tall person remembers his hands, finally- “-we don’t really know what we need you for? Just that I, personally, need the two of you, for whatever reason to aid me on my god-appointed quest? It’s all vague, I dunno what I’m doing, Phil doesn’t know what we’re doing, and there’s absolutely no one we can ask, cause the god dipped after dropping me off or whatever.” 

The number of garbled words the tall guy used makes Techno’s head spin. They don’t even sound like they’re in Argot, which doesn’t help his already confusing spiel at all. Techno can’t help bringing both his hands to his face, digging his nail-hoof-things in a little: “Not only do I get abducted, I get abducted by lunatics.”

He’s not directing the words at his captors, rather attempting to amuse himself, but Phil still responds: “That’s also mostly Wilbur, honestly. I’m just tagging along cause I had nothing better to do, and this guy seemed like fun.” 

“That’s no way to talk about your deity’s chosen one,”- Wilbur gives Phil a light push. Taking their sizes into account, it still makes the man sway hard enough to almost fall, having to steady against the offending hand, but the action seems comfortable enough for both of them where it feels like a familiar ritual. So, these guys are likely to be well coordinated. The hope Techno has for someone like Deo or Squid coming in to save him and succeeding simmers. 

“Anyways-”- disregarding Phil’s complete non-reaction, Wilbur extends one of his fuck-off hands, specifically the one that doesn’t have Phil still hanging off it, over Techno’s chest, hanging above it expectantly- “-I’m Wilbur. Wilbur Soot. Pleasure to meet you!” 

Techno studies the hand. It’s a bit calloused, with some small scars here and there, some of which seem to be from touching nettle berries without proper precautions. What it could possibly want from him, he has no idea. 

Noticing his indifference, Phil explains, tugging on the hand he claimed for himself for emphasis: “This is a thing Wil does, hand-shake I think? It’s like-”- he reaches for the other hand, Wilbur orientating even before the gesture became apparent and reaching back- “-this.” 

They proceed to lock hands, Phil’s just about two times smaller, and shake them. Self-descriptive enough. 

“Looks awkward.” (sparks the desire to yank on the point of linkage, sit up and, while they’re both stunned, break their neck spines, because of course it does) 

At his words, Wilbur, who seemed content focusing on the hand-shake just a tic ago, perks up: “Yeah well, it’s normally done with the same hands? Like, right-hand-right-hand, left-hand-left-hand. We kinda had to improvise, cause Phil’s a clingy monkey.” 

In response to the accusation, Phil shoves him with a bit more vigor than necessary: “Look in the mirror before judging someone else’s reflection, you boof.” 

They break out in a mock fight Techno would have to bend his neck to follow, so naturally, he doesn’t. Laying on the mattress with hands over his stomach, he bangs his head on the pillow with as little effort as he can afford, eyes shut so hard it hurts. This, he realizes, is what he’ll have to deal with for at least a day, likely a lot more because Phil is not stupid, with the additional complication of having to follow these idiots orders. 

He’ll make this time as miserable for them as he can, he resolves. Meanwhile, though, what he does is focus on showing up Squid with the condition of inevitably having to play catch up, trying his best to ignore the bickering and light thumps behind him. His whole situation feels like it’s bound to be too mild to give proper consideration to anyway, collar and all. 


	2. Read All The Notes. I Dare You. including the end ones, pussy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ooo strap in, dear readers, this is like all the trigger warnings on the cover at once :D enjoy! 
> 
> second chapter tws: allusions to rape/non-con, violent thoughts (gorey, semi-graphic), incorrect cutting of tomatoes (non-graphic), minor character death of some nameless bandits, mild unintentional non-con (which is Not an excuse, ever, even if it's literally just an advanced hug), A Lot Of Thoughts and discussion of past rape/non-con by people who just suck at talking + a death threat because they suck at talking that much and threatening to kill the person causing distress to someone you're trying to comfort counts as comforting, right? right???

Techno has been in captivity for eight. Days. 

Well, technically it’s seven and today is the eights, but time is too much of a dramatic concept for the distinction to matter. So far, it’s almost bearable compared to the week he spent with the circus and definitely too mild to be considered karma, neither of which is saying much. After all and karma aside, he could bear being stuck in one position for up to twelve hours with minimal abhorrence. 

This is nothing like staying in one position for twelve hours either way. ‘This’ is almost fun, even if Phil is only now coming to not use galactic at every turn and Wilbur is only now starting to get comfortable not touching at every conceivable opportunity. Neither does he seem inconvenienced by Phil’s witchcraft, despite swearing up and down he can’t do any himself. All three, if you ask Techno, are equally awful. 

At least their labor distribution is more or less even; for better or worse he’s not sure. As it is, Phil gathers resources and hunts (which techno is sure is just his excuse to have some time to scream in galactic for about an hour without complaints), Wilbur keeps them organised, and both split more menial chores in a way Techno struggles do describe as anything other than just. Both fend off mobs as well, Phil with okay-ish knife skills, Wilbur with bizarre god-given powers and neither with any kind of practiced skill. Pitiful to watch, if fun enough to snort at. 

He himself had been assigned cooking duty, as sustaining oneself is apparently not for cool adventure guys nowadays. To be fair, he dug this grave for himself, berating their cooking skills and giving snide suggestions all the way until Wilbur snapped and told him to do it himself, which  _ hurt _ (and which was the first instance of phil being both blight and saviour, stopping the pain of an uncertain order only to place a less destructive one). He mainly minds and struggles because he doesn’t want to work for someone willing to use a slave collar, though noncompliance has only ever landed him more orders. All the years and all the punishments, yet he never learns. 

Beyond that and telling him not to, under any circumstance, get further than twenty blocks away from them after he tried to sneak away on the first night (‘okay but, if you stand forty blocks from each other, am i stuck between the two of you, with one of you, or do i get to roam around both?’ ‘i dunno. wanna check?’ ‘no.’ ‘i do.’ ‘ _ n-o. _ ’- they don’t end up checking) or hurt either of them as a precaution (which is hell, as some of his more graphic thoughts are now punishable), Techno doesn’t get bossed around much. When he does, it’s mainly Wilbur, who also happens to be on the burnt end of his tauntings and sarcasm most of the time. Despite his best attempts, it only ever seems to humour the bastard. 

On topic, both of them somehow manage to have semi-fulfilling conversations with him even through all the venom, though Techno’s not very appreciative of all the conflicting emotions it inspires. Neither is he very appreciative of all the apologetic glances and aid in roasting Wilbur Phil throws at him when the aforementioned oversized in every way and surprisingly mature child prods, pets, hugs, and otherwise bothers him like he’s some kind of an exotic animal, but... He may appreciate them a bit more than conversations, if only to get on Wilbur’s nerves. Which neither of them ever manage to do in any meaningful way. And which makes his stomach churn with just how  _ fun _ he finds their little squabbles, bar the touching part. (which, wilbur does the exact same kind of to phil, a favour which phil returns, which makes techno feel  _ excluded _ like some kind of idiot, which is- he wants to choke them both and disembowel)

Sometimes, reminders of what happened back at the circus feel almost like a taunting of an easier time, when bad guys were bad, pain was pain and karma was karma, as even despite his detestment of Wilbur’s most annoying actions, they tend to always be no more than just that. Annoying. (they do hurt, a simple touch on the shoulder sending him into a spiral, but it’s not like the memories are wil’s fault, he tells himself. might he be so hesitant to throw out blame to feel a semblance of safety? he’d like to think not. actually, he’d like to think not, ever of anything period, but can’t have it all) 

If Wilbur ever actually tries to touch him in a way Techno fears he might, he will rip the collar off with his bare hands and proceed to kill Wil or die trying, karma or not. Phil, who’d noticed his vexation, had assured him that would never happen, and if it did, he wouldn’t be alone in line for murder. His assurance, infuriating in every way as it is, works*. 

Even despite the fact Wilbur had also clearly noticed, and all he’s done about it so far is keep a bit of a distance all the way until they get swept up in conversation, and, subsequently, in a smothering hug. At least he has enough good grace to not order Techno into physical contact after just one lamentable time and tends to give some space as soon as he notices discomfort. That’s something. 

Something about the damned collar, too, is that Techno doesn’t have to pay any attention to what he’s been ordered into doing beyond looking at it. The carrots- next to last of his tasked vegetables- are almost done with, all the while he can focus on contemplating how utterly helpless he would be in case Wilbur ever became interested enough in. Well, anything from him, to disregard any and all good graces he still happens to have. Phil had bet rather high on that not being the case, though, and- and Techno trusts it. More than he would’ve trusted himself a few years ago. 

If the carrots wilt under his glare, he won’t be surprised. 

A something about being the head cook is also easy to find, since he can order the source of most of his suffering to be gone (go get water from a river down a steep hill) and have him comply. Deflecting to the positives like this, he ponders, puts him in danger of developing Stockholm syndrome. 

Ah, he’s probably past that threshold. One hand still busy with carrots, Techno gently introduces his knuckles to his forehead. 

As though psychic, which at this point wouldn’t be surprising, Phil looks up from his assigned vegetable: “You okay, man?” 

“Yeah, of course, it’s not like my hands are movin’ completely independent of my thoughts or anythin’.” 

Phil looks back down. Glares. Braces. “Techno, I… I mean, order dismissed.” 

The stillness of forced obedience leaves Techno’s mind. He stops. The carrots are almost done with, only one too large butt remaining, and the collar is still there, its presence ever strong in all of its stale glory. He looks at Phil, hands limp against the chopping board: “Oh wow. A true hero.” 

“Sorry.” 

“It’s whatever.” 

His words are the verbal equivalent of kicking a bleeding puppy. Making people feel bad with full intent like this gives him hives nowadays even without the collar’s familiar jolt of punishment, though in this situation the weakness only frustrates him further. Maybe even angers him, at this point. (he’s dumb, and he hates everything, and if he could only just not exist- if he had never existed, the world would’ve probaly been a better place. a bit too late for it now, though. gotta right his wrongs, all that redemption arc stuff, even if- even if he can’t take back the past, and can’t take back his actions, and just doing better now is not enough-) 

Either way, he continues to ignore the carrots, opting to get up and settle next to Phil instead. The way he’s been handling his tomatoes is starting to get on Techno’s nerves, so, warning the elf with a few moments of hovering above the cutting board, he reaches for the knife’s handle. Phil shifts his hold to make the blade more accessible, but doesn't let go. A smart precaution, if completely useless. (arch the knife in one continuous move until it drives through the nose into the brain, shove the body to the ground to prevent too much splatter. a small jolt of warning courses through him. never had he ever regretted intrusive thoughts so much  _ (and it has the audacity to  _ turn on him, knife through  _ his _ throat _ , because of course it does) _ )

The small discomfort of direct contact has no way of standing up to Techno’s perfectionism, so he doesn’t hesitate to fix both Phil’s hold of the knife, the angle, and the poor, squashed tomato’s position. Explaining the changes in a low voice with just a hint of condescension (‘ you wanna  _ cut _ the tomatoes, not make tomato slosh’), he coaches Phil to where he can watch the man work without cringing and removes himself back to his carrots as soon as he’s done. 

He’ll admit to crossing his arms and hunching like a defensive hog after the fact, but Phil is too focused on not messing up and Wilbur is gone, so no one is there to testify. His huffines shall bear no witnesses, and if it will, he will remove them as he would eyes from a potato. 

Out of the corner of his ear, a distinctly Wilbur indignant ‘hey!’ reaches him. Considering their whole group’s affinity for talking to themselves and objects, neither Techno nor Phil pay it any mind beyond inclining their eyes towards the noise for a split tic. 

Then, Wilbur manifests with a bucket in hand, posture wild and water spilling over. Techno startles back so hard he’s now at least a block away from where he sat: “You can teleport?!” 

At the same time as his reasonable question, Wilbur whips around to where he left to, points and yells out ‘There are Bandits!’, which, if you ask Techno, is a lot less reasonable behavior. 

Still, he tries to get back up, noting Phil slumped, done to death and fond, hands resting on the cutting board. How’s he so calm? Practice, probably: “Well first of all, you didn’t answer my question. Second of all, you didn’t have to yell, they’ll find us easier now.”

“Oh, sorry,”- Wilbur lowers his voice to a hush. Still doesn’t answer Techno’s question, though. 

Cutting in to keep Techno sane, Phil does instead: “He can’t, technically, but he can kinda… lose his body? I don’t really know how to explain, and neither does he. Either way, would you be up to help me if they still try to attack us?” 

“It’s not like he’s got a choice, they’ll probably kill him otherwise, they’re not  _ mobs _ .” 

Both Techno and Phil stare at Wilbur for a few tics. 

“Sorry, sorry.” 

Techno sees a brilliant opportunity. While Phil gets up, knife in hand, mutters a head-splitting galactic word and looks in the direction supposed bandits should come from, he relocates back to his cutting board, takes a knife of his own and gets back to chopping with the most neutral expression he can manage. The done, yet respectful look Wilbur sends him before going to get his potions is worth a thousand bastards abusing his disadvantageous position. 

As the first bandit peaks through the trees, both Phil and Wilbur are in full combat readiness, stances, potions, magic walls/words and all. So is Techno, as much as can be sitting down and preoccupied at least. The bandit doesn’t try to bargain, opting to charge immediately. 

They get a potion to the face and a knife to the chest, the execution swift with countless mobs of practice. Interestingly enough, Wilbur looks more excited than aggrieved by a death he helped facilitate, while Phil shivers and tries to hide into himself. If not for the beginnings of Stockholm syndrome rooting in Techno’s mind, he’d be concerned more about the former than the latter, but as such, only notes both. 

While he’s reflecting, Phil cuts the throat of some other guy, using his remarkable tiny size in full, and Wil lands two more potion throws with alarming precision. Two more guys bunch up on Wilbur, one splits to Phil, while the fourth and final charges Techno. 

They don’t quite run into the knife he raises a bit prematurely, and a tad too slow, but it’s a close enough call where he can gut them like a fish with but a flick of his wrist. As they fall on him, they almost stab his shoulder with a dagger, which he manages to catch in time and use to stab them in the throat. Their blood hits the potatoes he’s started cutting. And him. He licks some off his snout, letting himself revel in the taste. He’ll have to ask Wilbur to bring more water. 

Think of the phantom, Wil is the first one to talk: “Huh. You look positively lovestruck with murder and I somehow still find you more cute that threatening.”

Unable to combat the uncomfortable swelling in his chest or his defensive squint, Techno glints his bloodied knife at Wil: “Probably cause me killin’ you would require ridiculous amounts of stupidity on your part.” 

“And who’s to say I’m not stupid?” 

Maintaining eye contact, Techno stabs the knife into his cutting board (like he would into wil’s spine): “Survival instinct.” He’s rewarded with a light flinch. Phil shifts his eyes from one to the other, setting his knife down: “Yeah, I’m not sure Wil has that.” With Wilbur’s near immediate retort, it starts a verbal squabble. He doesn’t follow. 

(instead, his eyes fall to the knife, stabbed into a puddle of blood on the wood. he hungers. it’s been a long while since he’d drawn blood, longer since he drank it, but he still remembers the taste. just as he checks on phil and wil, his only control these days, they nearly walk into the campfire, too distracted by their mock fight. to hell with this, right now is not the time to be pretending he’s sane; with some effort, he lodges the knife out, scoops as much blood as surface tension will allow and indulges) 

Overall, the fight was uneventful, Phil and Wilbur somehow managing to rope Techno into looting the bodies and disposing of them without an explicit order. Maybe it’s the stress of being in mortal danger for the first time in forever, maybe it’s a bit of guilt over not helping much; either way, he ends up revolutionizing the disposal process by letting the two bodies he’s been entrusted with roll down the rocky hill by themselves. 

His method is wordlessly approved of, Phil and Wil exchanging a glance before setting, or in Wilbur’s case, dropping down their burthens and shoving them a bit to facilitate rolling. It’s the pinnacle of disrespect for the dead, but all three of them are nothing if not disrespectful for some arbitrary rules. Especially, Techno thinks with some frenzied bitterness, not Wilbur and Phil. 

**. . . . . . . .**

Techno is the only one not to get piss drunk that evening. The duo of most disrespectful people across the three dimensions is trashed on booze and some divine drugs Wil’d summoned, leaning into each other enough where one’d think they’re trying to merge, Wil’s weird stringed instrument forgotten next to them. He seems to be forgotten by them as well, sitting as quietly as he can on the opposite side of the campfire Phil lit with but a single wrenching word and enjoying the smell of red wine and good food carrying over. It’s not ideal, but it’s an arrangement he’s happy with. 

Like all good things, though, it’s not one that lasts. Wilbur, head propped up against his knee and arm thrown around half of Phil’s body in a carelessly possessive manner, looks up over the flames, and locks eyes with him without ripping away from Phil. The dulled intensity of the giant’s stare is alarming if typical of drunk people, and squashed under it, Techno is sure some apprehension leaks through his attempted indifference. 

“Hey, Techno-”- his voice is quieter, more dragged out than usual, lacking the smile that rarely ever leaves it- “-get over here.” 

“No.” 

“Awwww, come on-”- the smile is back, Techno wishes it wasn’t- “-don’t make me… Ugh, make you? I dunno. Either way, get over here!” He’s excited all over again, gaining loudness and tactlessness pretty much emblematic of drunk people as a whole and him in particular. 

“No,”- Techno hears himself hesitate. Of course, both Wilbur and Phil take it as him wanting to join their little cuddle session, under influence as they are. While he can at least understand Wil’s misreading of him, he can’t for the love of the galaxy begin to excuse Phil’s. He hates inhibitors. 

Wil giggles, extending the hand not busy squishing content if quiet Phil into his side in a grabby motion: “Technoblade-”- an exhaustive wash of magic stifles his mind- “-sit in my lap.” 

It’s so much worse than he could’ve expected. Even Phil stirs a bit, looking up at Wilbur with quizzical concern; still, he does nothing to stop Techno involuntary, as slow and with as much of a radius as possible with minimal pain, getting up and walking over. Because he’s too hazy, Techno tells himself before realizing he’s trying to come up with an excuse for someone who knowingly contributes to him being in this situation. Wilbur urges him with a finger. The collar almost yanks him forward. 

No matter how much he tries to delay it, he’s one lute-like instrument away from Wilbur. He gauges as much time as he can before stepping over it, small shocks running all through him and the collar burning his neck. On the other side of the instrument, he stands for a tic longer, managing to take a step to the side and turn around before getting pulled down by his own body. 

The pain settles when he hits blessedly clothed and furnace warm flesh. With the immeasurable relief, he can’t help relaxing into the hand pulling him closer to Wilbur’s torso. For the first time in forever, he feels not only helpless, but  _ small _ . His laxness doesn’t last long. 

He clutches the arm around his waist in a feeble attempt to prevent it from doing anything ( _ so _ much for too mild), reaching for the collar but being kept just a pix away from the galaxy forsaken leather. Even through, or rather, because of the new wave of light shock waves running through his body, he keeps trying. Phil is clearly concerned now, he can tell just from the rustling on his side, but Wilbur remains as clueless as ever. 

Or, maybe, cruel. There’s no way Techno can know. 

“Wow, man, you’re like a feather,”- Wilbur’s voice is laced with something akin to bone-chilling concern- “Are you eating alright?”- nothing in the world, Techno reflects somewhat dully, is as terrifying as a maniac that genuinely cares. How does he care? Oblivious to his rumination, Wilbur carries on, the words not but a passing remark to him: “Anyways, that wasn’t that hard, was it?” 

“It was.” 

Techno’s voice is cold and level. Techno’s eyes feel watery and dimmed. To his side, still mute Phil starts slipping out of Wilbur’s hand. 

“Oh.” 

The singular word sounds like the word of someone struck by all the bad decisions they’ve made in their life and were entirely blind to until it all came crashing down (entirely unfamiliar. techno always knew what he was up to was shit). Wilbur removes his arm from around his waist. 

Techno wastes no time fumbling off and settling as far from Wil as possible with one continuous move. He shoves the not-lute away accidentally, stressing himself even more with displacing the instrument. 

Having gotten up somewhere along the line, Phil comes over and settles between him and Wilbur. This gesture, unlike many others, Techno can’t help but appreciate in full. His savior (so, so much better than him. in every way. he would die for philza. he’s not thinking clearly) doesn’t try to cuddle up to Wilbur again. A tense, heavy cloud of feelings hangs over the three of them, thick with smoke and leftover magic from Techno’s struggling. 

The patch of grass Techno is staring at might as well catch fire. 

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned,”- quiet, wrapped up in a broken smile words cut through the silence. Techno doesn’t look up from his grass, determined to ignore the end of the world if the need arises. Regardless of his determination, a hushed conversation starts, one-sided and vacuous. 

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to say it. But I did, didn’t I?” 

“Do you mean your father?”- Phil’s voice is subdued, melancholic, dead, almost. 

“No, no.. I don’t think. I think I mean like, a god? A fake god. I don’t remember enough of my father to address him. Or of anyone!”- he sounds frustrated. Resisting the urge to react, to protect himself, to hide, to curl, takes about twenty years of Techno’s life expectancy. 

Unaware and unbothered, Phil hums in acknowledgment. 

“Or of anything. Only enough to,”- voice so sad it sounds about ready to cry, Wilbur cuts himself off. Techno feels bubbling resentment coiling at the top of his chest. 

“Only enough to miss it all?” 

Damn you, Philza, damn you and everything your attentive ass stands for. 

“...Not really. I don’t miss it-”- hushed, Wil’s voice grows into anger- “-I’m just- I’m scared I’ll go back,”- a sob breaks through the air. It’s Wilbur’s. This time, Techno doesn’t resist curling into himself, eyes burning and hugging his knees to his chest tight enough for his ribs to hurt. 

“Fuck, shit, Techno, I’m so sorry-”- the sudden apology feels like a hit to the gut- “-I didn’t mean to- fuck, I mean, what I did was horrible- I’m just, I’m sorry okay?” He doesn’t grace it with an answer.

“...Okay?.. I’m so sorry,”- Wil has the grit to sound broken. (not even an idea of what he was doing as he was doing it? really? he should give lessons.) 

In a rushed move, Techno shoots up: “I want to be put to sleep.” 

Next to him, Phil goes to get up as well, much slower and more cumbersome: “Okay. Go to your mat, please.” 

He does. Lays down, wrapping himself up to his eyes, not really listening as Phil offers something to Wilbur. 

Instead of an order, he hears Phil speak again: “I’m gonna use galactic to put us all to sleep, okay?” 

“Sure. Whatever.” 

With the familiar headache of Phil’s word and countless memories of his magic class, Techno lets himself get lost in the warm swarm of nothingness. 

**. . . . . . . .**

He wakes up from a nightmare. 

The sky is a dull, steel blue when he squints his eyes open, disgust settling against his skin like a blanket of ash. With the nightmare vivid in his mind, tied to his sleeping matt no less, the first thing he does is try to move. He can’t. For a split tic, a familiar smiling face hovers over him in the dark of a circus tent.

Adrenaline slopping through his system is apparently enough to shake the spell off, so he ends up bolting up like a snapped bowstring. His breathing is hoarse and ragged. 

The nightmare being what, who it was, the first thing Techno does upon getting to his feet is check on Wilbur and Phil. Both are sleeping like the dead (claw up to death and deface what’s left), so, to have something to do, he starts making breakfast for himself. All his actions, from starting up a small fire to cracking eggs to holding up a pan feel both effortlessly mechanical and as difficult as dragging boulders up a hill. 

Throughout his whole breakfast, the choker is  _ there _ . It sits around his throat, around his mind, making itself known with every bite he takes, every bit he swallows, rubbing against irritated skin in a bleak reminder of yesterday’s pain. He knows better than to try and itch it. 

By the time he’s done eating, food swallowed through the farce feeling of fullness, the sky is bright and decolored as though it hasn’t painted itself yet. Stark. 

With no better way to distract himself, he decides to go down to the river to do dishes. Leaving the protective circle Phil and Wil made after the attack and streaks of blood on either side of him as he walks are a nice little callback to reminiscing of his circus times as ‘easier’. At least he got to bathe by himself yesterday. (the people from the mission he was meant to supervise never got to)

He reaches the water, collar thrumming at the distance. Settling down, he puts the dishes on a flat rock, starting to clean. 

When he gets back to camp, they’re still asleep. Not ready to be idle yet, Techno takes both his and Phil’s knives as well as all the daggers they’ve got along with a grinding stone, and settles behind the closest thick, safe tree he can find. Even if it’s opposite one of the dark walls Wil’s created for the circle. 

Wil says Phil can never replicate the bedrock, not even after learning its name. Techno forces the thought out, just because he’s what, annoyed at humanising them? Thinking about them at all? It’s more pleasant than the graphic mess he’s barely keeping at bay. His swiping against the knife grows angrier. Good as anything to focus on, right? 

Lost in the motion of sharpening (and filing down his claw-nail-hoof-things), he’s a bit surprised when he hears first signs of life from camp. He freezes. He can get in so much trouble for handling knives after yesterday- 

Sitting as quietly as he can, he listens in to the rustling and groaning coming from behind him. 

“Oh. There’s a fire.” 

To make matters infinitely worse, it’s Wilbur. Groggy and hangover, he’s likely to be irrational and irritable ( and annoying ), so even if he wouldn’t normally give Techno any repercussions for doing something beneficial to the group for once there’s a danger of it happening now. 

So far though, he doesn’t seem to care about any of that, at least if the noises of him eating something juicy, maybe fruit, are anything to go by. Wilbur proceeds to rustle through stuff, still preoccupied, and Techno relaxes against the back of the tree. He’s so tired, it could rival all the times he had to stay up for the job or for potatoes combined, except somehow stupider than both. 

**. . . . . . . .**

Techno doesn’t end up being punished in any way for hoarding knives. 

He also doesn’t end up being bossed around at all. There’s not a thing either Phil or Wilbur tell him to do all day, walking on eggshells and never insisting on dialogue instead. Even when he refuses to help them with food, a thing he’s most used to getting ignored, they just go on to making their own and set him a plate when they’re done. It’s nowhere near as good as the cooking he directs, but it’s at least better than what he had the displeasure of trying on his first morning with them. (it actually is pretty good, and phil cuts the tomatoes nigh perfectly. he still can’t force himself to swallow more than two bites)

Not getting bothered by them is both a blessing and a curse, mostly because he detests the pitiful expressions they throw his way. Especially Wilbur, who looks like a guilty, kicked dog. 

Their annoying behavior continues the next day, though less weird and downcast than before. When he refuses to carry the backpack he’s been entrusted with, Wilbur picks it up with a simple ‘that’s fair’. (choke down with the ruksak strap. even for techno’s usual feelings on intrusive thoughts, that one is bleak)

The pattern doesn’t break the next day, either, though he still refuses to talk to them unless he absolutely has to or helps around camp in any way. Despite himself, he agrees to carry the backpack, if only out of shame. It’s not even that heavy, encrusted with scripts as it is. He could’ve just ignored the stupid feeling. Afraid the speck of guilt at its base will snowball into forgiveness if he’s not careful enough as he is, he chooses small scale compliance instead, not with them but with himself. They could both die in a ditch, for all that he cares.

The third day brings no changes either, though Phil and Wil start to joke around with each other in a way similar to customary. Techno would resent their return to relative normalcy, but he’s getting sick of the depressed, shameful overcast they’ve been enjoying so he doesn’t fret too much. 

On the fourth day, he speaks without necessity for the first time since the lap incident. It’s prompted by Phil doing everything wrong, which probably says more about Techno than it does anything else: “Wow Philza, even after I teach you how to cut tomatoes? You’re bad.” 

Phil’s surprise doesn’t linger, as he reacts by gesturing at the forest fruit soaking the entire board and even a bit of his clothes: “Those were tomatoes. This is a monstrosity.” 

“It’s literally the same principle, how weak can your kitchen game be?”

All he gets in response is a huff, Phil dutifully trying to apply his tomato skills to the fruit Techno never learned the name of. Wilbur looks like he wants to add something, but thinks better of it, coming back to carving meat very much incorrectly. 

The conversation dies, bringing with it a little bit of awkwardness that has lingered since the lap incident. That day, Techno gets invited in on Phil’s and Wilbur’s dinner dialogue and for the first time since the incident, he brings more than a level glare to the table. 

He adds some passive-aggressive jokes instead- 

  
  


**. . . . . . . .**

  
  


* Phil comes up from behind him. “Hey, Techno…”- his expression is hard to read in the light of the moon, but his body language is nothing short of heavy as he sits down, some two blocks away. He doesn’t try to elaborate. 

“Mm.” 

“I’ve been meaning to tell you- I mean. I’ve noticed how you freeze when he touches you.” 

“So? Conscience torturin’ you too much?”- humour in his words humourless, Techno can’t help looking down. He wants to shut his ears and eyes, or seize existing all together. Not this conversation. Not right now, not ever with them. Steeling himself, Phil ignores it. 

“I just wanted to say, he won’t. He’s better than that, even if you’ve got no reason to believe that.” 

A level stare is all it takes for Phil to retreat into himself: “Stop dancin’ around the word rape, Philza,”- like Techno himself hasn’t. Why this conversation? Like Phil, he wants to curl up. Unlike Phil, he glares instead. 

“Sorry. I mean, Wil’s like, almost, no, he  _ is _ , actually, despite all his jokes, asexual anyways from what I know, and I know a lot about him. I think. So even if he wasn’t better than that, you’d still be safe,”- starting to look like the caricature of defensiveness, Phil’s suffering is almost funny, not the least because of its familiarity. Not sneering at it is too much effort. 

“Great defence,”- Techno crosses his arms, looking up- “-A true reassurance genius.” 

“If he ever tries, I’ll kill him for you.” 

What. Having toiled back to his initial pose, Techno bases himself on his knee, studying his opponent. Phil shifts, uncomfortable. 

“Well that’s a sudden change of pace.” 

“Yeah. I mean- I’d take off the uh, the choker as well, and then I’d run for my life. Probably wouldn’t outrun you though.” 

Techno gives him a critical look. Seems sincere enough. “You wouldn’t,”- and Techno wouldn’t give chase, but it’s not like Phil needs to know that. It wouldn’t be out of kindness anyway. 

“Yeah,”- it’s Phil’s turn to sound humourless with a laugh, which he nails- “So I’m kinda staking my life on him not trying, as you see.” 

“That’s a nice way of putting it, cause I’d say you’re staking it on your morals. That’s just me though,”- it is just him, one talk. At least Phil’s got those. 

“Sorry.” 

“It’s whatever.” 

They sit in silence for a bit, Phil looking down at the grass next to him. “So yeah, I’m not gonna bother you anymore, goodnight,”- he all but flees, getting up rapidly and pacing behind Techno. There’s rustling of fabric, a wince-inducing whisper of galactic. Until its artificial exhaustion overtakes him, Techno is alone, the buzz of gore in the back of his mind his only company. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> leave any question about this work in the comments/any comment about this work in the comments and unlock secret dialogue (secret lore,,, secret,,,, plans? seecreeets whooo-oo-ooo)


	3. Breaking: Manager of Small Shop, Father of At Least One, Makes The Opposite Of A Mistake. Wooooo!oould be better if he didn't

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> third chapter tws: uhhhh i don't fuckin', dissociation for the very end ig? there's not even really all that much violent thought in this one, wow. attempt at humour and some weird fluff? is that a tw?  
> it's just fun, y'all, apologies for that

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jk there's a cliffhanger <333 suffer

Techno has been in captivity for thirty days since the lap incident, so thirty-seven overall. Not even tired of it anymore, soft tendrils of affection for Phil’s easy-going, friendly nature, and Wilbur’s straight-faced humor wrap around his mind like a plague and lull him into precarious comfort. No matter how much he reminds himself it’s Stockholm syndrome playing up, no matter how easy it is to blame them for his internal turmoil when staring at the sky before sleep or when quiet hangs over them in travel, it all dissipates into meaningless nothing when they smile at him, don’t push with their disgusting caring questions, when they remember not to touch. It’s kind of pathetic, really. 

Keeping his actions regarding them zeroed in on compulsive guilt and down to insults didn’t end up doing him much good either. Now that he thinks about it, it failed him from the moment Wilbur just… Apologised to his cutting words, Phil curling along, and in his heart, shame had resonated instead of triumph. It didn’t stop there, either, that would be  _ way _ too easy; Phil had started to laugh at his mean jokes and diffuse them with jokes of his own, meanwhile Wilbur sat and observed, coming in with that stupid straight-faced humour of his at perfect artform of a timing, retreating and apologising as soon as it registered. Watching him then, Techno is almost compelled to declare forgiveness. 

Not to Phil, though. (he’s not bitter phil is so much better than him- than he used to be. he’s not) 

Even if he also tries to keep at least a block away at all times, like that was ever an issue with him. Sure, it would’ve been and was much appreciated during the first part of Techno’s enslavement, but all it does now is contribute to the growth of Techno’s number one enemy. 

Touch starvation. 

He beats himself over the head for the way his heart pings with longing whenever Phil and Wil get into a mock fight, share an aggressive hug (read- when Phil gets picked off the ground and near choked to death in a ‘friendly display of affection’), play a clapping game or act out ridiculous scenes. He’d always enjoyed touch, even if it’s restricted to those he trusts, being brief or world stopping with no inbetween, and being instigated by him. When eight days from the incident, he reaches to shove Phil who’s doing everything wrong again, it comes as no surprise to him. 

Even if unsurprising, it’s still the leading cause of his bloating, self-loathing frustration. Him and his stupid body, wanting love and care like some kind of nerd; to combat it at least a little, he takes to hugging himself whenever he’s sure they’re not looking and sneakily hugging himself (crossing his arms) whenever they are. It’s kind of working. 

(It’s not. It’s not even the kind of connection he craves, not by a longshot. It’s driving him mad.) 

By far, the worst part of his struggles is the fact these stupid idiots didn’t even plan any of the sufferings he self-imposes on himself with their help. Techno wants to rip and tear, but alas, he is confined to beating his pillow vigorously before bed and including more chops and mushes into their diet. Like most other signs of his distress, it goes unacknowledged. He’s not sure how he feels about that. 

(It’s not unacknowledged. It’s respected, neither of them bothering him when he’s in a mood and neither trying to pry. It… Is suspiciously similar to whatever he had with Calvin, exacerbating just how much he misses home and providing morbid comfort all at once.)

Either way, their journey along the river bed continues, meandering and overall rather uneventful bar Phil getting progressively more comfortable using galactic around them. They craft, brew, play mob hunting games, come across villages, buy and sell and leave as Techno once again embarrasses them on purpose (last time he pretended to be poisoned and had to be carried out piggy-back style), climb trees for fruit, bird eggs, and, in Techno’s case, dropping down and scaring the others shitless, take turns abusing the strings on Wilbur’s ‘guitar’ (which techno is not allowed to touch due to claw-hoof-fingertip reasons, but does anyway) (with the claw-hoof-fingertips specifically) (wilbur threw a pillow at him not once, not twice, but three times, and the only reason he goes for small twigs now is because phil said no throwing things around the campfire) and overall make their own fun, and it’s almost domestic. Almost. The collar’s presence still hangs over their heads like a dreary cloud. At this rate, both it and the damned leather scrap feel kind of irremovable. 

They also have a few dangerously feely ‘joke’ conversations, in which they learn, among other things, that they’re all technically orphans, but Techno tries not to focus on those. 

(especially not on the one where wil had stated ‘it’ll kinda stop mattering if we ignore it hard enough’, and he didn’t even try to contest it. sometimes, he manages) 

Orphans or not, they reach a rather large town that day, which Wilbur has a ‘weirdly intense’ feeling about. Instead of taking it as a precaution, as they probably should, Techno can just tell they’re all excited to see how he murders their reputation this time, and if it will include arson as it almost did the first time Wil had a gut feeling before entering A Human Settlement. If he knew the way this captivity would turn out for him, he wouldn’t’ve stayed  _ that _ willfully ignorant through all his magic classes, if only for the ‘fire’ word. 

Not like it’s possible to only know ‘a few nice galactic words’, not for long at least. It’s a fun thought, though.

Walking down the main street of the town, Techno has to pay all of his attention to not getting separated by the crowd since Phil is too busy holding onto Wilbur’s fingers for dear life as the man finds another thing to be fascinated by and Wil is too busy being too awed by everything to avoid walking into a lamp post (which he almost broke). They’ve visited at least four shops already. All they’ve spent money on so far is bread and the cheapest set of Theft! Techno has ever seen. They still aren’t showing any signs of stopping any time soon, like absolute madmen. 

Despite his best precautions, he gets cut off right between the household magic items and a caffe. It’s not that big of a deal, as he’s pretty good at shouldering his way through people when he wants to be and Wilbur is kinda hard to miss, but he’s still not happy about being left alone in the middle of a loud, crowded street. Have they never heard of paying attention to their things? He’ll just have to jab them. (cave their bodies in with punches) Maybe they’ll finally think of taking the never even used anymore choker of doom off. 

Catching up just as they enter another shop, he squeezes through the door, grabbing onto Phil’s elbow: “I hate to alarm you guys, but you uhh kinda discarded me.”

“We really did, huh? Sorry, man-”- Phil tugs at Wilbur’s hand, gesturing up in his general direction with the other- “-you know how he gets.” 

Too busy staring at the brewing stations displayed on one of the shelves, the man in question doesn’t as much as bother to turn to defend his honour: “Sure, shift the blame to me why don’t you.” 

“But it is on you though,”- Phil’s voice is light as ever- “I wasn’t the one basically running around the city center with their longass legs, Wilbur,”- though it gains somewhat of an accusing tilt by the end. 

“No, but you went along with it,”- Wil couldn’t be more dismissive if he tried, preoccupied with a glowing box of blaze powder on a showcase opposite to the brewing stands. 

“Yeah, cause I’d have to yell for you to hear me and we’re in public.” 

“You could’ve tugged me down or something, I dunno,-”- Wilbur turns to the cashier- “Um, sorry, how much’re the gold carrots?” 

“Five diamonds per sixteen, sir,”- looking up to him and pointing at the price tag, the cashier sounds both apprehensive and awed. 

“Oh. Uh-”- Wil turns down to Phil- “-is that good or a scam?” 

Dutiful, the man responds like a guidebook: “You can find much cheaper ones in big cities, but for a riverside township it’s pretty okay.” 

Both the argument and Techno seem to be forgotten by them, though he’s sure it’ll re-awaken as soon as they’re out, if only because none of them are free of guilt when it comes to randomly separating: “Oh okay! I’ll take sixteen, then,”- Wil returns to studying the displays. 

“Will that be all?” 

“Nope!-”- his eyes run across showcases, gauging what they need- “There’s just so much stuff here, like what’s that glowy thing? Mag-ma cre-am? What’s that even for?” 

Before the cashier can do their job, Phil jumps in: “Fire res, if I remember correctly.” 

Wilbur freezes, as though struck. “I’m going to sit in the campfire.” 

“No, no you’re not,”- despite the knuckles at the bridge of his nose, Phil can’t hide the fondness. 

“Why not?” 

“Yeah, Wilbur-”- everyone in the room looks to Techno as he speaks, and he’s hit with a reminder of how tall and bulky he is by normal standards- “-you totally should, because you’ll fit without an issue and your clothes aren’t gonna burn. Stick it to the man.” 

“Neither of you are any fun,”- Wil’s all but pouting- “Anyways, I’ll take sixteen of those as well, a stack of blaze rods, a stack of nether warts, sixteen of glowstone, and a stack of redstone, oh and before you ask probably some other stuff too. Phil, what do ghast tears do, they’re like, ridiculously expensive-” 

**. . . . . . . .**

Techno’s swinging on his feet, zoned out. Wil’s shopping spree has been going for. A long time, and he’s kinda tired of jumping into Wil’s, Phil’s, and occasionally the cashier’s educational exchange even if jabbing the former two might as well be his new job. Their bill ends up a stack and five, so almost all their money, but hey. Necessities. Such as a turtle shell, because of course all the potions it’s for being essentially useless means nothing other than joy to Wil. 

The cashier, who has long given up on talking unless addressed, leaving the babysitting to Phil, looks somewhat dizzy with the diamonds rolled across the counter: “I-I’m sorry, I’m not allowed to handle this much money, I have to call dad- the manager- May you please wait here?”- their face contorts in embarrassment. Wilbur, who was already on the floor shoving bundles into his near bottomless with scripts rucksack, processes for a tic before glowing up with a reassuring smile: “Oh, of course, no need to fret. We’ll stay right here.” 

Radiating red, they give a fervent nod: “Thank you, sir, it’ll only take a tic I swear-”- they flee. Wilbur puts the rest of the bundles away, going to fasten the backpack. 

“You were probably not meant to do that until the transaction was complete, you know,”- in a rare instance of looking down along with his condescension, Phil ruffles through Wilbur’s hair. 

“Really?”- Wil pauses- “Oh yeah, that makes sense. No one told me though.” 

“Yeah, ‘cause it’s common sense,”- reaching over in front of Phil, Techno shoves Wil’s head with his knuckles. Not phased, the man picks up his backpack, raising from the ground and going back to propping up the ceiling: “I think it’s called self-consciousness, actually.” 

Techno squints up at him. “Oookay.” Wilbur cups the top of Techno’s head with his palm, gives it a light push, and takes the hand back. A couple of galactic words come from behind the counter. 

As the white, tearing pain induced by the words fades ( _ amateur-ish, not at all like phil’s _ ), Techno turns to the source, blinking away the lingering numbness. That- that had impacted him more than usual- the man behind the counter is looking at him with unreadable eyes. Oh galaxy, please don’t let it be about his past. 

Before he can as much as open his mouth, the man, presumably the manager, looks up to Wilbur, pointing to Techno with his fist: “Is that your slave?” 

Well. That’s. Nothing could’ve prepared him for that, even though he was sure it was bound to happen. At least he wasn’t recognized after whatever fuckery allowed Phil to remember him and know his new name. 

Shifting his eyes to his fri- to Phil, Phil looks stiff, calculating, but it could be mistaken for puzzlement, and to Wil, who looks genuinely taken aback, Techno considers. He could be rid of them. Free. He could have them legally executed, if he wanted to. A wave of panic washes over him at the thought. It’s aimed at the idea of murdering them. At the idea that there’s no way they go unpunished in  _ some _ way if he were to confess. Fuck. 

“What? No! This is Techno, Techno’s a friend”,- shaking off the shock, Wil’s near indignance sounds real, in contrast with Phil stiffening further into barely concealed guilt. Techno just stands. He can get rid of them here and now, give them the punishment they  _ deserve _ but- But. 

“Ya sure? I’ve seen collars like that before, hell, I’ve sold them, I know how they work. You’re not getting out of this one,”- there’s barely contained fury under every word, personal vindication dripping of the man’s entire being. A man who wants to right his wrongs. A dangerous man.

Techno cuts in before realising what he’s saying: “I knew travelin’ with you guys would kill my reputation.” He’s not covering for them. Only saying what he’s been thinking for a while now. 

The manager turns to him, the look in his eyes softening to something sad, and oh, Techno might just die now. He’s lying. He’s lying to a person who knows he might’ve been told to, a person who cares all too much, a person he would jump at just twenty days ago. 

“Why has the collar got your name in shiny letters on it, boy?”- dejected, Techno reflects on being called a ‘boy’, hulking wall of meat that he is compared to everyone but Wilbur, the manager included. He feels about to cry. He also feels his face lay in a neutral line between him and the world, Phil paling as though in sickness next to him: “Oh yeah, I’ve made that for him. He likes personalised things, but not quite that much, you know?” 

“So it’s a fashion choice?” 

“Yeah, essentially.” 

“If it is, surely I can read the name out loud?” 

Fuck. The phantom of the feeling Techno gets whenever the collar is in motion weighs too much, and under that weight, the thing he’s most scared of is giving it away. As though through gritted teeth, but in practice with a shrug, a simple ‘go ahead’ leaves his mouth. The words don’t quite feel like they belong to him. 

He’s regarded with another sad look. “Technoblade-”- his name is unfamiliar on the stranger’s lips, but the stillness it invokes is anything but- “-bow.” 

The manager’s voice carries pain. Techno manages to grind out ‘we’re leaving’ before grabbing Phil’s arm and storming off. He neary bumps into the doorway. Even through a layer of dejected, painful darkness around him, the mistake hurts.

He ducks into the first alleyway he sees, yanking Phil in, and clamps his snout with both hands. As his body bends into a right angle, he can’t contain the feeling of electricity replacing his blood, his flesh, his thoughts- the pain bursts into his hands, its noise existing for a split tic before being muted. He’s unable to hear the confirmation of it. Unable to relive any tension his muscles hold. Unable to stop existing. 

In the back of his mind, stillness incases all thought. Then, without any warning, his body drops to the floor like a sack of potatoes, which he barely manages to catch. The pain, as blinding as it is, only exists for a few tics longer before giving way to a burnt feeling on his neck and soreness in his every cell. 

He can hear again, his own fractured sobs and heartbeat entering his senses before the hum of the streets. Not looking up from the cracks in the stone as he pushes himself up, he gets back to his feet. Below him, Wilbur sits with the most broken expression ever, which quickly turns apologetic when he notices Techno staring. Phil walks over to them, stopping next to Wil: “We’re gonna take that off today. Should’ve done that thirty days earlier. Sorry.” His eyes are on Techno all through his words, most of which Techno has trouble understanding. As soon as he’s done, though, they go downcast, full of guilt. Good. 

“Techno, I’m-”- whatever Wilbur wants to say, he thinks better of it, straightening to his knees and starting to get up- “-You don’t have any orders anymore.” 

Techno walks up to the two of them. They brace, Wilbur freezing still on one knee. They’re very right to do so even if it hurts, as he slaps both so hard it breaks skin. Neither says a word about it. 

Circling around them, Techno stops in the entrance to the alleyway and turns to look: “We’re rentin’ a room.” They follow, just as wordless as they were taking a hit. The rest of the way to an inn at the edge of town, he doesn’t look up from the ground. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so how's your day going, while we wait for me to do complete a semi-major rehash of chapter four for the third time which might take until tomorrow which means you gotta just sit with this cliffhanger


	4. People Who Don't Know How To Communication Try To Communicate, More At Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this one has so much dialogue. i'm so sorry 
> 
> anyways fourth chapter tws: talking, violent thoughts, child abuse (mentioned), existential fuckery (sort of), small allusion to capitalism (negative) and to talk of politics (look I'm a gen z slav snowlake who thinks daddy stalin did nothing wrong, i had to /joke aka the reason i decided to post this in the main tag because ~humour~), uhhh dialogue heavy, mentions of rape, the tws are all out of order and all the characters are downright bad people, shit-talking religion, have fun!

By the time they get to an inn, he’s… Somewhat better. Or, more accurately, completely out of it. He doesn’t even catch how much the room costs, gesturing for his guilt-ridden goons to deal with it themselves. 

Which turns out, letting them deal with it was a horrible idea. Whatever they paid for it they paid too much, with its size of about one Wilbur across (or about four blocks), its two beds, and so much dust the singular barrel with four candles melted to it for a nightstand looks almost fluffy. Also, its stale air. Not even being in the depths of his mind saves Techno from it hitting him in the face like a wall as he opens the door. 

“Wow. I thought I’d get at least somethin’ out of this, but you guys are broke.” 

Listless about their response, he proceeds to enter the room, stooping a bit to pass through the doorway. Behind him, Wilbur lets out an awkward laugh. Phil, meanwhile, gives him that near accusatory ( fond ) look of his as he walks past into the room before going downcast again, settling on the floor between the beds and opening his rucksack. 

Having had to bend about in half to enter, Wil knocks on the ceiling, propping it with his back humped. Looks to Techno, expression careful: “I’m sorry man, but did you get a room just to torture me for my sins?” He didn’t. Didn’t even think about it, in all fairness, which he realises was kinda mean now that he is. 

“I technically got one to regroup, the pain’s just a fortunate side effect,”- and honesty is never on the menu. Wil braces. “What, am I not bastard enough to deserve a proper punishment for you?” 

“Naah, you’re way too incompetent for that,”- way too innocent, Techno doesn’t say. He’s not the best vager for that even if Wil was any less of a bastard, he shouldn’t be going around giving people false ideas of themselves. 

From the floor, Phil interjects before Wil can gather his wits: “Cold. What about me though?” 

Unable to help a small chuckle, or more so, a heave of his chest, Techno splits his attention down: “Why’re you askin’, you’re even less inconvenienced by this room than I am,”- words full of humour, his voice still rings sad. The awkwardness of it is palpable. Techno takes off his spot, going to push the bed opposite of Phil against the window wall, if not to make more room then to have something to do. 

“So you’re saying neither of us is bad?”- can Wil never let anything go? 

“Eh, I understand lapses in judgment,”- he… More understands horrible decisions, really, and they hadn’t made those in his opinion, not even Phil who has a lot less of an excuse: “Most of my discomfort wasn’t even your guys’s fault anyway,”- and well, it wasn’t. If it weren’t for the circus, he’d’ve been annoyed with them sure, resentful for a couple of days maybe, but he’d grow back the rational part of his brain eventually. Get them to undo the spell and embrace the adventure, all that good stuff. 

Theoretically, of course. He does miss his nerds, thirsty for exciting ventures as he’s been for the last year or so. He should write a letter or something. 

Oblivious to his rich inner life, Phil beats Wilbur to a reaction without looking up from the backpack, or from adding to the pile of things on the floor: “It  _ was _ mine, more than you already thought. I… May have known about your history, Techno.” 

So that’s why he was always so damn perspective to Techno’s discomfort. Now there’s the question of how he knows, and how much, and why in the world he still went through with it, and- okay, there’s a lot of questions. Depending on the answers, Phil might or might not get his ears chopped off in a tragic accident. 

“Wait, what? What history? Phil?”- Wil jumps in, frantic with concern. 

“Um, he’s had experiences with collars like this, before. They weren’t the best.” 

That doesn’t tell much. Phil’s always been quite the slick bastard, hasn’t he? 

“How do you know?”- Wilbur’s thirst for knowledge saves the day again, as contemplating the implications of Phil’s unforseen awareness is kind of too much to speak through. Dependable as always, to never shut the fuck up. Techno almost smiles. Since when has that become a compliment? 

“Hm. Um,”- for the first time in their talk, Phil stops his rummaging- “We were paired in a tournament, as you know, I think, and his fighting style was uhh, pretty familiar, and I just. Sat on that for a couple of years. And then I couldn’t contain my curiosity, and found out he managed to get caught by a freakshow, start a potato farm, and sever all ties including his name with what got me to look into him in the first place,”- he glares into the backpack- “Didn’t think I’d meet him ever again.” 

“There are freakshows in this world?”- Wil’s face scrunches up in disgust. Not sure about the conversation but surely angry, Techno goes to open the window and shut the outside shutters. 

“Yeah, unfortunately. Mostly with mutants, like Techno here.” 

Leaving the window open for some semblance of air, Techno turns and sits down on the bed. “Wow, Philza, that’s some nice virtue signaling for someone who stalks people just because they can and doesn’t even use the knowledge,”- Techno mostly uses it to give better gifts and make better jokes. Clearly, he’s far more morally superior. 

Wil, who’s come to sit next to the growing pile of bundles and unstackables Phil’s created, jerks up from his unfastened rucksack to look at him: “Wait, did you just say virtue signaling?” 

“Yees?” 

“Holy shit. Holy shit! What  _ is _ this world?” 

“It’s the overworld. I’m not meant to stay undecomposed here.” 

“...You know what, I’m just not gonna question it,”- and he doesn’t, going back to his rucksack related mission. Phil and he look almost like a staged painting, like that. It’s way too dark for them to find much of anything now though. 

Like a good friend, which, they’re  _ not _ friends, Techno stretches over the bed for the barrel, which hasn’t even got script enchantments, and gets out a flint and steel. The room has quite a few candle bunches in it, so that’s something to do; he goes around, lighting each and every one with a simple flick. He’s not completely bad at it even with more than a month out of practice. It’s nice. Either way, pleasant lighting or not, he’s done everything there was to do in the room. (stab phil in the throat with his nails and tear out his jugular, because of course, that’s the best passtime. murderous urges are just so much fun.)

...Other than take off his rucksack, which only now registers as something other than a back extension. Settling back on the window bed, he shrugs it off, puts it in his knees and joins the rucksack ransakers club. Not because he needs anything, just because he can. (he actually does need something, the grindstone, but he refuses to file his nails in front of these two for reasons he’s not going to think about)

He doesn’t get to examine the stuff he’s been entrusted with, both Phil and Wilbur getting out what they were looking for just as he unfastens the top of his bag. It’s a tiny black box with a golden galactic label and Theft!, respectively, and, seeing an opportunity, Techno puts the backpack away and slides down to sit in front of Wilbur, Theft pieces scattered between them: “Soo uh, why’d you call this ‘chess on steroids’?” 

“Oh! Oh, cause it’s got the same checkered playing field thingy, but bigger, and like, a lot more pieces, but less piece types, I think? Still a lot though, I can show you the chess ones if you’d like,”- he’s all but starry eyed. To be fair, chess does sound interesting, so… 

“That would be nice.” 

“Amazing! Now wait a sec, I gotta-”- he looks down to his hands, curled up in fists- “-king, queen, bishop, knight-” 

**. . . . . . . .**

Techno learns, Theft! has the perfect number of piece types for chess. He also learns, chess is ridiculous. Chess is ridiculous, and he is so, so annoyed Wilbur can’t seem to pay attention to their match (which he’s losing), but rather keeps glancing or outright staring at the glowing needle tracing script lines on a square handkerchief in Phil’s clever hand. Sure, Phil’s handy work  _ is _ captivating, but galaxy, it could never rival the satisfaction of beating Wilbur at his own game. 

Though that’ll have to wait, since the script glows up, spelling out ‘flesh’, or ‘spirit’, or both since galactic is the language in question, and Phil still shows no signs of stopping, instead tracing over lines invisible to the untrained eye. Well. At least that explains why resisting this one had such dire consequences. 

With Phil’s mastery, the entire diagram is alight in no time, brighter than Techno’s ever been able to see. That’s another good thing about the damned collar, he guesses; magic’s bright and beautiful, and if seeing it takes being connected to a piece of evil leather that thrums in anticipation against his burned throat, that’s just life. 

Setting the needle in the middle of the sigil, Phil puts his hands on the cloth. 

Techno regrets existing. 

Galactic words splitting his consciousness isn’t even the biggest reason, despite the sheer destructive force they carry. It’s the collar, the damned, galaxy forsaken collar, radiating not pain, but  _ something _ , some violating force or other, enveloping every square pix of his being in a presence so thoroughly unwanted anything Techno went through before feels like a joke. 

As the pain fades, he finds himself curled up against the bed, hugging himself, tears tangled in the fur around his eyes. Fuck. In front of him, Wilbur, unaffected as always the bastard, points to his suffering: “What the fuck, Phil. Why didn’t you warn us, I could’ve helped?” 

“Sorry,”- Phil has the senses to sound ashamed of himself, possibly in self-preservation- “Um, either way, Techno, can you tilt your chin up for me please?” 

Begrudging, Techno does so. It hurts too much to be worth it. 

Phil, having moved in, puts knuckles below his chin, keeping it in place while reaching over with the needle. In moments like these, Techno appreciates the endurance training he’d found so useless back when hitting things was problem solver number one, as images of best ways of dispatching an enemy like this enter his mind along with a flex of fingers. Not like he’d be punished for it anymore, of course, but. But he just doesn’t want to. 

Either way, Phil swipes the needle across the collar, the damned thing dropping its parasitic hold on Techno’s psyche and sliding off, for once gentle and careful rather than carse, a breath of fresh air in the stale room. A sigh of relief rumbles through his throat. His muscles lax, pure bliss taking over his vision. 

When he comes back to his senses, both Phil and Wilbur are staring at his neck with matching expressions of horror, and he can’t help but cringe. Reaching up, he brushes against where the collar was, wincing at the pain dragging his nails over it inspires. His fingers come back ashen. “Well that scar ain’t healin’.” 

“Sorry,”- Phil looks away- “Um, can I ask you a question?” 

Techno squints at him. “Suure.” 

“How the shit did you manage to resist that?” 

That’s a good question. Thinking back on it, it wasn’t much harder than overloading a cheap knockoff, and all that took was endurance, but it  _ was _ different if only in that this one didn’t break. Also in almost having the numbness of following an order to it. Hm. 

They told him not to hurt them in any way, shape or form. Even his jabs, back when made with malicious intent, were punished, so clearly the collar has no nuance worked in (or rather, his nuance. pot-a-to potato): “Pain tolerance, probably. Oh, and contradiction with former orders, rode that one pretty hard.” 

Phil and Wil exchange a puzzled looked. For a few tics, it’s just them looking at each other like idiots, before recognition lights up both their faces as though they share a brain; as though they share a brain, they turn back to him, heads tilted the exact same and brows knitted, one calculating and one confused. 

“Wait, we didn’t tell you to not let us come to harm though, did we?”- the question almost sounds like concern, coming from Wilbur’s mouth. 

“Naah, you really didn’t-”- for the first time since he’d been freed, Techno looks down to his lap, into which the treacherous collar slipped, and picks the project-scrap-looking strap up. It’s a lot longer than expected, not to mention too thin in every way to have been his wraith, but hey, magic- “-which was very stupid of you,”- he lets the words roll off his tongue, savouring them- “Good thing’ this has got you covered.” 

Having shook the damned scrap for emphasis, Techno continues to swing it back and forth as Wilbur follows the gesture with his eyes like a cat would follow a sun rabbit, liking his lips: “Yeah, yeah- um, d’you think I could wear this for a bit by any chance?” 

Techno stares. Out of the corner of his eyes, he notices Phil staring too: “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Wil.” 

“I know, it’s just that I’m-”- Wil rides his hands up his face, knitting fingers into hair and pulling down until he’s cupping his cheeks with knuckles, expression nigh a pout- “-I’m really fucking curious.” 

It’s quiet as he collects himself, bracing. Nothing good ever comes out of bracing. 

“I mean- I mean it would be very unfair to go through with my curiosity if you’re uncomfortable with it, and, and neither of you have to stay, but I figured maybe you’d like the revenge? I don’t know if you would, I actually-”- taking a deep breath, Wil straightens his back again- “If it helps, I had- I had- I remember now, I don’t want to but I do- I had decided to grab you with a collar cause I was curious. Only cause I was curious.” Like an ashamed child, he hides into himself. Did he tell Phil? If so, a tragic accident might just happen today. 

“So you lied to me.” Phil’s words are a simple statement, not an accusing note to them. Wil makes a laughable attempt to look small. Well, that answers Techno’s question. No accidents today. (he can’t make out the picture beyond himself on their dead bodies. to this day, he’s not sure if he likes these unfinished thoughts better or worse) 

“Mhm, I did, I’m sorry-”- Wil does sound sorry. So, so very sorry.- “-it’s just, I didn’t really think this world had people and not, you know, cardboard cutouts from my imagination, so I didn’t think it’d be wrong for me to just- to do whatever I pleased, I’m sorry. I even- I even knew that it would end badly, I really did, but I still,”- he sobs, turns his head to the side- “Sorry.” 

Once again, it’s quiet. Techno rolls the collar ribbon onto his finger, studying both of the people in front of him before stopping at Philza: “So. Both of you are kinda abominable, but I just gotta know. What in the world did he tell you to consider this tiny little thingy here as a valid alternative to, you know, talkin’? I’d also ask where you got it from, but I don’t think I wanna know,”- he puts a joking tilt onto the words. It doesn’t seem to soften the blow much. 

“Said you wouldn’t tag along otherwise. That the god would be angry, if you didn’t,”- just like Wilbur, Phil looks to the side- “And about the collar, I know you said you don’t wanna know but, I had it as a keepsake from my teacher I killed.” 

Techno switches his attention to Wilbur: “So, just to be clear, you told the guy who knows galactic that if he didn’t comply with your wishes, an entity beyond both your control would be angry?” 

“Um, yes? Is that worse?” 

“Hey Phil, doesn’t galactic literally blow up in your face if you don’t use it?” 

“...It does.” Shoulders curling, Phil looks and sounds about ready to cry. Neither Techno nor Wil say anything, just watching. Waiting. Just as Wilbur turns back and Techno opens his mouth to talk, Phil lets out a deep, exhausted sigh: “Killed my parents with it. Accidentally.” 

They just stare. Phil curls into himself. 

“So now you’re both an orphan  _ and  _ an orphan maker? Wow, Philza, one more thing and I’ll think you’re trying to imitate me,”- it might not be a very good thing to say, if the way Wilbur looks at him is any indication. Well. He tried. 

“That sounds awful, Phil. D’you wanna talk about it?”- to Wilbur’s credit, he sounds compassionate enough. Definitely does a better job at comfort, opening his side up for Phil to lean into, which Phil does, and not trying to evade the situation. If he could do that for himself instead of burrowing in blue, now that would be impressive, but as such Techno is left skeptical. 

“I don’t know,”- Phil’s voice is pained, touching with how childish both it and his posture, hiding into Wil’s side, are- “Aren’t we meant to be explaining ourselves to Techno right now anyway?” 

“Yes, yes you are,”- like an asshole, Techno crosses his arms- “Back to what I was sayin’, doesn’t galactic also yank you around to do its biddin’?” 

“It does,  _ kinda _ ,”- Phil hides further into Wilbur, nigh whiny- “Does it matter, though?” 

“Yes, yes it does, Philza, cause it means you’ve been stronghanded into this-”- he realises Phil’s not looking only as he gestures at the scar- “-whole collar thing, and Wilbur not knowin’  _ anythin’ _ means he’s dumb but not malicious, and that means neither of you is actually abominable, and  _ that _ matters ‘cause I want a fuckin’ adventure, and as such to stick around. Am I clear?” 

For a few tics, everything seems to freeze. Then, still not quite reacting to his words, Phil and Wilbur start to reposition, Phil ending up in a tight ball in Wil’s lap and Wilbur hugging him close like a human teddy bear: “So, you’re not leaving?”- Wil sounds disbelieving. 

“N _ o _ ,”- with everything he has, Techno makes it sound as much of a lie as possible, just because he’s still angry at them. It comes out more condescending, which in retrospect, is better. Wilbur curls tighter around Phil: “That’s nice,”- and even tighter, electing a choked out calling of his name. He drops his hold, and Phil gets more comfy, and Techno almost wants a hug just looking at them. 

To hell with that, he just wants to participate, and by galaxy he will if they let him: “Uh, yes, nice, may I?..” 

Both nod. Damn this is awkward. 

More or less carrying himself over with his hands, Techno shoves Wilbur’s open arm back onto Phil, electing to lean against it. Closing his eyes, it’s almost nice, but he just- he can’t relax: “Does anyone want to get drunk?” They hadn’t since the lap incident. 

Phil’s “Aw, fuck yes” comes at the same time as Wilbur’s “If you’re sure”, and, nuzzling the back of his head into the arm, Techno jolts up and marches over to Wil’s backpack. Even enchanted as it is, it’s still heavy, and almost as big as Techno himself; still, Wil’s got an entire pantry in there, he refuses to get mixed up with that, so carrying it over it is. 

Shoving Theft! away with his foot, he sets his burthen down, swiveling on his heel and dropping back onto Wil’s arm again as soon as he’s free. Somewhat pointedly, he shuts his eyes. Against his back, Wil shifts: “You two are making this so fucking difficult for me.” Techno leans onto him heavier. There aren’t any more complaints, sounds of soft rummaging spilling through the room. 

**. . . . . . . .**

They get. So drunk. So quickly. Wil has started giggling after the very first swig, Phil’s making purr-like noises and Techno himself feels more lax than he ever did, head empty and the arm he’s leaning against warm. The unbelievable, thoughtless comfort makes him suspicious enough to examine the bottle when it gets to him; sure enough, there’s a script on the bottom, as easy to peel off as a flick. Passing both it and the bottle back to his murmuring not-friends, Techno relaxes further, if that was possible. 

“Mm. It’s like, an amplifier? Meant to make you happier,”- somehow, he catches Phil’s explanation, despite in no way meaning to. It’s a wonder he survived galactic class. 

“Oh, so like blue?” 

“No, blue’s just for taking away the sad, I think? It’s more of a memory blocker than anything.” 

“Do we have a lot of this?” 

“I dunno. Probably not.” 

“Aww, that sucks. Blue sucks.” 

“What makes y’ say that?”- full of humour, the crinkle in Phil’s eyes is tangible despite facing away from him. 

“It sucks, haven’t I already said that?” 

“Yeah, yeah you did. Why, though?” 

“Cause it doesn’t even work, like a dirty little liar,”- Wil sounds so offended, it’s sweet. Techno rolls his pate against Wil’s arm, looking up: “So you still remember things you don’t wanna?”- curse him, he’s also curious. Predictably, Wil stills against him before going limp once again: “Yea, I do,”- he sounds frustrated, almost. 

“Wow. So your god-given drugs are a scam? I always knew religion was a lie, but not to this extent,”- there’s some rustling at Techno’s words, his only warning for an upcoming light punch to the head. Other than that, all his critical statement gets is some giggling and a heavy hand patting his shoulder, Wil clearly pleased at his diss: “Yeah, it’s all a scam. Did you know, my god isn’t even a proper ‘god’ by human standart? It’s literally just a bunch of incomprehensible energy with something like a will, not even all powerful, can you imagine?” 

“Does it at least work in mysterious ways?” 

“Oh, absolutely, I still have no idea what I’m meant to be doing, only that I have a mission and that’s it’s important as fuck, honestly just, such mysterious, very ways,”- the hand comes back to his shoulder, shoving him back and forth like Wil’s plight is in any way his fault. Still, it’s nice, kind of. Relaxing. 

“Yeah, The Galaxy tends to do that. Be that? I’m not sure. It is annoying though,”- casual as ever, Phil giggles when both Techno and Wil freeze at his Wither blast of a point. 

“Wait, does it make me threatening you with my god’s wrath even worse, then?”- somehow, Wil sounding pitiful while trying to gauge whether he’s a villain is endearing rather than annoying. Maybe because it’s not aimed at Techno, this time. 

“Kinda, but uh, can I be honest with you for a second?”- even despite his bilious wording, Phil, too, manages to sound vulnerable, although it might just be Techno’s fondness for the both of them acting up. Either way, with Wilbur’s choked “Yes, of course you can”, Phil carries on: “It had mostly hurt cause I saw you as a friend, then. I was scared to lose you more than I was scared of The Galaxy, I’ve even been saved from death by it before, but a friend was just. New, and scary to fuck up. It still is, kind of.” 

Once again, Phil blasts both Wil and Techno away with his words. Now that Techno thinks about it, it makes sense that Phil would have no friends, galactic mages rarely do, but he just seemed so capable of human communication before. Well. Not like Techno is a good gauge for that, but still. 

“I- I’m still very unsure of how to behave with the two of you, actually. How to keep you from hating me, and stuff. I mean, I clearly wasn’t trying hard enough, I didn’t think about Techno at all, I just kept on speaking Galactic, but- but he’s still here, and I kind of regret it? It’d be so much easier if I was still alone.” 

To that, Techno can relate. All his nerds and all their hijinks, and yet he still lets no one but Calvin anywhere near his heart; although now that he and these two will be traveling together, he might have to open up. Huh. They might hate him. All the more reason to, then. 

“I mean, I wouldn’t have to be scared of being alone again,”- Phil lets out a broken laugh- “That makes no sense, does it?” 

“No, it does,”- quiet, Wil sounds a bit muffled. When Techno turns, it turns out he had hunched enough to hide his nose in Phil’s hair, somehow, straightening out just enough to talk more freely: “I’m so scared of losing the two of you too, I sometimes wish I was alone on this quest. That’s kinda why I’m always myself, you know? So that you either leave me for me, or stay with me for me. That’s better than if- if I just- uh. I mean, another reason I wish I was just alone is because I’m already so attached, and I can still be taken away whenever,”- his voice breaks down into sobs. 

“I- I mean, I’m pretty sure I left that world of my own free will, you know? But, but what if I just wake up from a coma there someday, and neither of you were ever even real? You’re both- you’re both too good to be true for me,”- unbelievably sad and soft, Wil inspires the desire to hug him. (stab- no. just no) Techno moves away instead. As good as any opportunity to open up, huh? 

Turning to face them and dropping backwards in one continuous motion, Techno lets himself hit the floor: “Too good to be true my ass, Wilbur.” 

“What do you mean?”- Phil sounds concerned. He should be. 

“I mean, Philza, that both of us are bastards. You with that whole stalking shebang and whatnot, and I- I’m just in general,”- why is opening up so damn hard? 

“Yeah, that’s fair, I mean I’ve killed six people and put you in a dangerous magic artifact against your will, but like, what did you do other than serve at Hypixel?” 

Quietly, possibly to discharge some of the tension, Wil whispers “What’s Hypixel?” in a ways too performative voice. 

“Oh, a company that kills rich people for rich people, I think. Anyways, Techno?” 

Well. That was his last out. Clicking his tongue for momentum, Techno spills: “Stood guard for rape like some kind of mindless goon. No collar, no nothin’, just not wantin’ to end up in trouble with my manager for killin’ two expendable newbies. I mean, how bad could rape be?”- gesturing to the ceiling, he’s making up excuses for himself even if they sound like jokes. Neither Phil nor Wil respond. “Anyways, juss lettin’ you know, in case you need your backpack back,”- the one he’s come to think of as his own. Well. It is technically still theirs, even if he’s been carrying it for the past month.

“Yeah, that’s a little fucked up, but what do you think I would do?”- scratch that, Wil talks with determination of a ravager locked in on a target. It’s so clearly a trick question, Techno freezes for a bit: “Turn and run, prob’lly, or kill the bastards in a bound of indegnance. I dunno.” 

“Hm, no, when I just got here I’d stayed and watched. For right now it’s pretty close though, good job,”- Wil actually, honest to galaxy, reaches over and pats his knee in praise. It’s sheer, overbearing arrogance and the odd, preening pride at being acknowledged are short-circuiting, taking Techno some time to recover from  _ again _ : “Stayed frozen in horror, you mean? That doesn’t count,”- maybe he’s adding even more corrosive venom to the words just to combat the preen. Maybe. No way for anyone to know. 

“That’s be the excuse, yes, very smart,”- how Wil’ makes that last bit sound like genuine praise, knee pats and all, Techno will never know- “You know I’m a curious little crime boy, though, right?” 

“...Yeah?” 

“So it would just be an excuse, cause I’d’ve wanted to know, and, in all honesty, cause the me before this whole thing was kind of an ass. He’d loved suffering, I think. I mean,  _ I _ am getting better at it! I’m not even demanding my curiosity be sated nowadays, I’m asking politely,”- the way he underlines the last two words is kind of similar to how Techno would. Probably on purpose. Probably. 

Electing to ignore it, Techno focuses on the words themselves: “Yaaay, character growth,”- a smile splits his words. He’s distracted, isn’t he? 

There’s some shuffling of clothes from Wilbur. “I can’t believe I’m the most moral person here. Should I be concerned?”- in a diametric opposite of his words, Phil sounds as light and carefree as ever. Well. Good prompt as any to get back on point. 

“I’m sayin’ you should be, but Wil’s all waxin’ theoreticals like he still doesn’t care about shit, so I get how that it’s kinda hard right now.” 

“You’re saying both of us should be more concerned, Tech.” 

“Good observation-”- he probably shouldn’t be having this much fun, exaggerating his tone, but Phil’s statement is just too stupid- “-mr. Nitpick, what would I do without you.” 

“Without  _ us _ -”- Wil, not the one adressed, stresses the word- “-you wouldn’t be dealing with your problems, you utter dumbass.” Techno raises his head, shifting his knees to look Wil in the eye. 

“Wait, so, first of all, I’m dealin’ with them now? Cause I haven’t noticed, and second of all, you. Your help. D-eal-in’ with pro-blems,”- once again, he allows himself the fun of playing with pronunciation, annunciation, and whatever else it’s all called. His art has results, sort of, Wilbur scoffing: “First of all, we’re getting better at it, second of all, yes, yes you are. Like for instance, what did you do when you left the murder guild, or whatever with the manager and the rape guys?” 

Techno considered. “Killed the rape guys. Mostly out of personal vindication, though, the targets were already dead. Also uhhh-”- thank goodness for his fur, he can feel his face heating up- “-also donatin’ most of my potato money to like, rebel causes and stuff, to feel better about myself, cause somehow bein’ on standby for like, the worst crime possible isn’t even the top of my career, the top was all the orphans I stole and killed for a  _ literal corporation _ ! Not even all of them are gonna get to do the cool thin’s, like be the rich man’s assassins, some are gonna be Bean from accountin’ and that. That is the worst part,”- the worst part, is he exaggerating? No. Well maybe a little, but not much. 

“Wait, a literal corporation? Was your business of killing and stealing orphans  _ legal _ ? Am I understanding this correctly?”- Wil sounds pretty much the same as he did denouncing freakshows. No nuance in this man. 

“Yea, I even had a day job, as Bean from accountin’.” 

“Oh! Was Bean your actual name?”- cleaving in edgewise, Phil sounds excited- “Cause I can’t remember your actual name, and prying with galactic just seemed a tad too excessive.” 

“No, it wasn’t. Also, a tad?”- Techno sits up, giving as heavy of a stare as he can manage in this elevated state- “Wow, so moral.” 

“Yeeeah, a tad. I… maaaay have done some pretty heinous things for knowledge. I still have a moral code, though,”- Phil’s voice is almost bashful, him sitting in Wil’s lap like a brash king. 

“Dependin’ on the kind of thin’s, I’m sure you do.” 

“Yeah, I mostly just stole and maybe kidnapped once or twice,”- he has the impertinence- wow, that’s a word- to sound kind of annoyed at not being believed, though it disappears in the very next word- “Still the cleanest person in this room, hello?” 

“What about Wil, he’s barely done anythin’ other than be stupid,”- Techno has to try and avoid a shove. Not successful, he grabs Wil’s offending hand before it can leave and tags on it for a bit, which he knows Wil’s letting him do, what with him needing to hold it with both of his, but which still feels like the fun kind of vengeance. Feelings are weird like that. 

“Wil doesn’t count, he’s only been a person for like, what? Three months? Two and a half?” 

“Hm. True, true,”- once again, holding onto Wilbur’s hand, Techno wants to be a part of their cuddling. It- he shouldn’t, but neither of them is showing any upset with him so… He shifts on one hand, this time putting Wil’s arm around himself as he pushes into the giant’s side. Once again, he can’t help closing his eyes. 

“...I thought you respected me, Phil.” 

“What gave you that idea?” 

“Bastard.” 

“They do say we are the company we keep, I guess.” 

“As the chosen one, I command you respect me,”- with the help of some magic, Wil sounds both careful, respectful and fiercely dominant, enough where Techno’s sure Phil wouldn’t feel too threatened to tell him if it’s too far too soon but the joke still lands. 

“You can’t command me to do shit, chief,”- never has Techno ever heard anyone so delighted to tell someone to piss off. Wow, Wil truly is a magician of human interaction. 

“No, I can-”- stubborn and forceful, Wil squishes Techno closer and, as Techno shifts to behold whatever is about to go down, grabs both of Phil’s forearms into a hold with one hand- “-because not only am I the chosen one, I’m also  _ the _ strongest man alive, and you are small-”- he shifts to a babying tone, leaning side to side to accentuate his words- “-and frail, and in my lap, and helpless, Philza from the Minecraft tournament.” 

“It was called Mine and Craft Monday,”- Phil gestures to his ears, locking eyes with Techno with a mischievous sparkle. Oh Shit. “Oh and by the way,-”- even pushing the heels of his hands under his floppy ears doesn’t save him as Phil starts talking Galactic. This time, it’s less even the sound, which Techno can barely make out behind the rushing of his blood, it’s more the waves of shock, of masterful disturbance of the forces that be, not tearing through anything as a less skilled mage (like the manager- techno doesn’t want to think about it) would but rather pressing eager flesh with a dull knife, and oh shit Techno did not sign up for this deep of an understanding of Galactic. 

Either way, Phil is done, he is no longer being held, and Wilbur is bent in a deep bow on the floor with Phil standing over them both in a rare instance of height. 

“So what was that about being the strongest again?” 

“Nothing, absolutely nothing Philza from Mine and Craft Monday, also aren’t you using an evil language that made you an accessory for murder? How are you okay with that? Let me go and maybe I’ll be willing to comfort you,”- this time, the effect of his words is lost with how careful they are, prompting a discussion in case Phil wants it. How’s he got so much people’s skill, he has the least experience from what Techno knows?

“Eh, I’ll pass. You develop Stockholm syndrome for this shit eventually, and I’m way past that threshold already. So jokes on you, I love using the evil language that made me an accessory for murder,”- somehow, Phil does sound triumphant. Maybe because having a semblance of control in his life means all too much to him and Wilbur knows that and can probably relate, maybe because he’d just been freed of the mantle of a killer. Shit, now Techno sorta wants to talk feelings, even if not his own. What has this imprisonment made of him? 

“Eeey, Philza, Stockholm syndrome? Nice. You know I was jokin’ when I said we were the same person, right?”- that counts as talking feelings, he’ll fight on that. 

“You said I was trying to replace you.” 

“Eh, same thin’. Anyways, Wil, completely unrelated, can you move? Like, in a way Phil doesn’t approve of?” 

“With a lot of pain, yes.”    
“...Eeeeey!, Now we only gotta make Phil wear the unpaid worker collar, and we’ll be The Ultimate Trio!”- he might’ve gotten a bit too loud trying to make his point. So, sue him. 

“First of all, I’ve already worn it before, and second, only if you also learn the evil language that makes you kill people, Tech,”- Phil sounds the exact kind of kind one would talking to a rambunctious child. Eh, Techno had so little actual childhood he might as well be one now; so, instead of focusing on Phil’s tone, he thinks about it. He might not actually want Phil to wear the collar, he’s not that much of an asshole, but Galactic? That language’s had him in its grips since he was first assigned to learn it: “Yeah, sure, if you’re willin’ to be the teacher. Oh, and you don’t gotta wear the collar if you don’t want it, you’ve already passed the ultimate same person quest  _ and _ you’ve been blown up by galactic from what I’ve gathered, the pain’s probably equivalent.” 

For just a moment, Phil looks distraught. Then, steadies himself: “Yeah, I have. Thrice, actually. Is it- is it okay if I tell you about it? It’s just, I already know so much about both of you even without your consent, and I thought it’s unfair, maybe? You don’t have to listen I mean, I’m just offering in case you’re interested which you totally don’t have to be-” 

“Phil,”- with Wil’s weighted voice, the franticness Phil’s set settles a bit- “You know that I’d love to hear it. The more I know about you, the more effectively I can keep you around even without this whole chosen one bullshit, you know?”- a joking tilt to his voice, he taps his finger against the floor, relaxed- “Techno?” 

His words take a couple of seconds to process: “Oh yeah, I’d already poured my heart and soul out, now’s your turn. Then Wil’s-”- Techno glares- “-cause if he doesn’t, I simply will not talk to him,”- nevermind that they’ve both been soulful and genuine before he was, today. Knowing them, they will remember, and they  _ will _ make it his problem, so well. 

“Aww, come on! But what if I don’t want to?” 

“Dea-lin’ with prob-lems, Wilbur.” 

“Ugh, fine. How come I’m the only one who gets no respect in this house?” 

“Who said I respect Phil?”- Techno looks to the man in question, who steps from leg to leg not under his scrutiny, but just because- “You still gotta tell us all about why you’ve been blown up  _ thrice _ , by the way.” 

“Right, I gotta. Wait a tic, let me just-”- he gestures to his ears again. Dutiful as ever, Techno complies. 

This time, the waves of magic almost make him fall backwards. Wil’s upright again, stretching. 

“Uh, while I’m on a roll, should I…?”- Phil gestures to Techno’s neck. Unable to suppress a shudder, Techno looks to Wil: “Naah, we still have that ghast tear. Gotta let Wilbur feel useful somehow, am-I right?” 

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right,”- Phil sounds almost wistful, signaling more a jab than anything, walking over and dropping into Wil’s lap like a particularly elegant sack of potatoes- “He also makes a nice seat.” 

“Yes, and I can also shove you off whenever so you better pay me respect now.” 

Phil looks up to him. “Fine. I love and respect you and your contribution to the group is actually invaluable, I would’ve gone mad trying to keep it all together myself,”- he turns a bit, squashing Wil’s cheeks- “I really value and appreciate your work, and I don’t mean it as a bit. You-”- shoves Wil away, turning back around- “-are lovely.” 

“So I’m a good boy?” 

“...Yes, yes you are.” 

“Wooo! I’m a good boy,”- baffling as usual, Wil sounds genuine in his delight, hugging Phil closer. Sweet and innocent like a child, to the point the words aren’t nearly as triggering as Techno’d expect them to be: “That’s all nice and dandy, but are we gonna let Phil tell us his tragic backstory now?” 

“Right, right. So,”- Phil shifts, uncomfortable, and gets a reassuring squeeze- “So I’ll start at the beginning.” 

“I’ve met my teacher when I was about five, and- and she wasn’t initially a teacher? More like a family friend, and a community leader of sorts, and she was good at it, so everyone trusted her. Everyone trusted her, so I was just sort of. Left to my own devices, with her, as often as she’d liked. It wasn’t- nothing  _ bad _ , nothing like  _ that _ has happened, but, but she was getting into my head.” 

“Said I was the person she felt the deepest connection to, something like that. Would tell me stories, about herself and the world, and would listen to me as well. She was, she was good, to me, and my parents didn’t have the time to pay me attention so- they weren’t  _ bad _ , either, just busy- ah.” He’s quiet for a bit. Neither Techno nor Wilbur interrupt. 

“Either way, she became the closest person in my life. And- sure she would scream a bit, and talk in Galactic freely, but she’d said it was because we had a special connection and I was the only one she felt comfortable enough to do it with.” 

Once again, he’s quiet for a while. When he doesn’t talk, doesn’t show any intention of talking, rather looking lost in thought, Wil rocks them back and forth: “Sounds like a real hidden jackass.” 

“She does, doesn’t she. Anyways, she’d pressured my parents into letting me learn Galactic. It sucked. Hurt a lot.” 

“Like, physically?”- Wil puts a hand through Phil’s hair. Starts scratching. Techno can’t help cringing, as it only seems to place Phil further into painful apathy. With a bit of consideration, he gestures to the top of his own head, then motions slicing his neck open, all the while looking at Wil’s eyes. His memo is gotten, Wil removing himself and Phil coming back to talking none the wiser: “Yeah. It- it was mostly just Galactic, though.” 

They’re quiet for a bit more. 

“Mostly? So she did abuse you.” 

“...Yeah.” 

“Pff, I get why you killed her now, she sounds awful,”- midway through the sentence, it loses the joking tilt, full of compassion instead- “What kind of monster would hit someone already in pain?” Very pointedly, Techno doesn’t laugh at Wil’s words. He’s done a lot of character growth in the past few years. 

“I didn’t say she hit me, or that she was the one I killed.” 

“Yeah but- but I just know she did. Oh- oh fuck, I mean, sorry for assuming? Shit.” 

“It’s okay, probably Galactic,”- Phil sounds dejected. Techno chooses not to comment on how he had figured as well. 

“So she did?”    
Phil sighs. “Yeah. Does it- Yeah, she did. And I killed her.” 

“She sounds absolutely horrible,”- apparently unable to resist himself, Wil once again putting one of his fuck off hands on Phil’s head and this time, dragging it down, smoothing out Phil’s hair. Phil freezes. “Shit, sorry,”- wincing, Wil puts his hands on his knees, giving Phil the freedom to leave if he wants to. Phil doesn’t. Too scared, maybe. Too uncomfortable. Not necessarily because of Wil, so, to do his part, Techno moves out of the way to the doorway. 

“It’s fine,”- judging by how long it took Phil to respond, it’s not- “Um, anyway, wanna hear more?” 

“Yes,”- Techno cringes a bit at his own voice. Too sarcastic. Can he ever flee the uncaring asshole facade? Not like he isn’t an uncaring asshole, Phil’s story is just that interesting. 

“Okay. Okay, so, I was learning, and, and I hated it. The pain was growing more and more the more I understood, and- and she, she- I  _ think _ she deliberately didn’t- didn’t teach me enough for it to outbalance? I think? Cause when I started to try and practice myself, the right words just started coming to me, even back then? Not- not with her though.” 

Quiet. Phil sighs. He’s forgetting to breathe, but Techno’s not sure how to remind him. 

“So yeah. I hated learning, I hated her, and- and I didn’t hate Galactic, not even then, but I decided that I hated it. So one day, when I was about fourteen, I just. Stopped using it. Didn’t tell anyone why, just stayed in my room. She- she’d come by and mock me, tell me I would regret it, that I was awful and ungrateful both to her personally and to The Galaxy, and just- a lot of things. And I, I felt something brewing in my chest, but I thought it was just anger. I thought I felt heavy because I didn’t move much, and that keeping the words at bay was becoming harder and harder because of my emotions.” 

“I knew it was all bullshit, I knew I was doing something wrong, I knew I couldn’t just quit Galactic, I could feel it, but- but I was stubborn.” 

Quiet again. “You’re not breathin’,”- being nice was never an option for Techno, and he doesn’t want Phil to faint, so. 

“Right. Okay,”- with visible strain, Phil straightens his back, and takes a deep breath. Holds it for a bit. Out. In, for two tics. Not enough. 

“Do you know the six-hold-five model, by any chance?” 

Phil just shakes his head. 

“Oh, it’s like, breathe in for six, hold for four and breathe out for five I think?”- Wil’s talkativeness is both a blessing and a curse. Techno should probably be taking his own advice right now, or well. At any given time, to be fair. Phil’s story is familiar, but- but Phil had the guts, the nerve to just decide he didn’t want anything to do with it anymore and leave, as torturous as it was. Either way, he’s breathing right now, and that’s good. 

“So yeah. I don’t know how much time it took, but one night, I literally just blew up. Woke everyone up, had to flee cause they thought I did it on purpose,”- he sniffs, defensive- “But I- I didn’t just flee to the forest like I should have. I fled to her house. And- and killed her. We were yelling at each other, well, I was yelling. She just. She just told me it was my fault, and that if I had listened to her- so I started yelling in Galactic. That she didn’t warn me. And the urge to kill- it just felt so natural, and so scary, and so wrong but in an exciting way- anyways. I then took the collar she would threaten me with, as evidence, because I wanted to come back and prove everyone she was bad, and fled for real.” 

They sit in silence. Phil remembers breathing all by himself. With some thought, Techno joins, trying to time himself into Phil’s pattern. So does Wil. Maybe as the lasting effect of wine, peace sets around them in a protective bubble. It’s nice. 

“Anyways, remember how I said I’ve blown up thrice?”- Phil’s voice is full of fake cheer. 

“Yeaa,”- Techno relaxes into the bed behind him, the one he himself moved. He’s not sure how to convey that he wants to grab Phil by the robes and shake the story out of him without causing terror. 

“What happened?”- really, Wil has no business being so genuine all the time. 

“I hid in the forest! With my stolen things. Surviving on bread, mostly. Good thing it was summer in a warm biome, and berry season, because I would have surely died. Without Galactic, at least. And I really wanted to quit,”- explaining now, Phil sounds more happy than sad despite the subject matter. 

“So yeah, blew up again, completely delirious this time because well. Had a lot more emotions, somehow. And didn’t use Galactic after that. For the whole of- it felt like, for the whole of a day, but I’m not sure, actually. The moon switched the sun at least once, I think.” 

“How did it feel?”- Wil sounds at the edge of his seat, fingers kneading into the fabric of his pants. 

“Like the shittiest shit you can imagine. The stupid language had the nerve to panic I would actually forget it, the bitch. And then- oh, I lied.” 

“What?” 

“I mean- not really? No, I did. It felt like forever, actually, not a day.” 

“Like a really long day, that contained maybe thirty sunrises?”- Wil sounds very, very serious. Serious enough where it’s funny. 

“Pff, yeah. Thirty sunrises. Probably less, but hey, I’ll never know for sure.” 

For the uptenth time that evening, quiet sets around them. 

“Okay, but Phil, how did it end. You gotta tell us Phil. How did it feel, trying to lose Galactic from your brain? Tell,”- remembering himself, Techno tags on- “Please.” 

Some more quiet. Phil looks down. “It felt like I was dying. The colours- the colours I was used to were fading, my mind was becoming quieter and quieter, I was forgetting word after word so seamlessly you’d think I never knew them, I was alone in my head with only thoughts for company and they would fade too, maybe because I wasn’t eating, and at first it was all accompanied by the urge to save myself, just use a word or two, just to survive, but then that had also stopped and. And well. One day, I was looking at the sky, so blue it looked unreal, and my vision was fading so hard I wasn’t sure it wasn’t getting night, and I- I thought, I can’t really remember anything. Maybe this is the time to go home, and try to explain myself. Maybe they’ll kill me.” 

“But I had to check. So, I summoned a word to the forefront of my mind, one of the few I could remember. It was ‘light’, more as in ‘weightless’? For transportation, mostly. Anyways, I said it, and nothing happened. And I felt nothing. And I was- I was so excited, I said it again, and again, and- and I felt like I lost everything,”- the last part of the sentence goes down from the excited, loud ‘and’ to a more shocked by its own somberness tone. 

“And then I blew up even harder!”- nervous breathing, filtered through a smile Techno doubts to be containable or willing, fills the room- “Like a charged creeper, and I barely remember anything but the forest flashing beneath me, and maniacal laughter I’m pretty sure was my own- and then I woke up in a cave high up a cliff,”- he giggles- “With the choker next to me, of course, and the midday sun in the opening, and feeling like I’m the best. It was pretty surreal.” 

“Did you ever go back to civilization after that?”- Techno can just tell his voice is nothing but mocking. At this point, he might as well accept it like a crown of pride and lies. 

“Nope,”- Phil actually pops the p, more into himself but still- “Only to steal books and stuff.” 

“Nice. And you still never learned how to cook? Man, I gotta give you the best meals out of spite, now,”- it’s a lot more genuine in its appreciation this time, the unpredictable bastard. Techno decides to just roll with it, looking to the forgotten bottle next to him. “Anyhow, Wil-bore Soot, your turn,”- he grabs the bottle, downing a bit more for show- “You can make it a stand up routine, if you want,”- with that, he extends the bottle. 

Instead of Wil, Phil takes it, gentle as he drinks a couple sips. Then, he pasess it, Wil considering it for a tic before shrugging and offing the whole thing in one swig. 

“Okay fuckers-”- he sets the bottle down, shattering it against the floor, which all of them look at barley for long enough to be considered sensible- “-prepare to suffer, cause I’m already remembering a lot of embarrassing shit and by god, I  _ will _ make it everyone else’s problem. By the way, Phil, I  _ am _ very sorry about that one time I soaked your bathrobe thingy through with tears, it might just happen again some day.” 

**. . . . . . . .**

Techno wakes up, and it’s hard and warm. Softer than the floor, but not enough- but it is warm though. How many more bottles did they finnish yesterday? Groaning a bit, he burrows deeper into his sleeping mat. Later. 

**. . . . . . . .**

Techno wakes up, his whole body gritting and creaking and with a headache of galactic proportion. Just how much did he drink yesterday? He remembers opening at least two more bottles, one of which was decisively  _ not wine _ , and talking,  _ so much talking _ . It makes him shudder. How much did he tell them? 

Both in an attempt to soothe the pain and as a reaction to the question, he pushes his knuckles against his forehead. Well, Wilbur has told them all about how terrified he was and still is of the world around him, where everything wants to kill him, and how he tries his best not to be nostalgic for the awful times and peoples of his old world, and so, so much about the first few days in their world, with so much existential shit thrown in for flavour- Meanwhile, Phil had told them a whole bunch more of his adventures/misadventures, and Techno… Techno had talked politics. Of course. 

At least he wasn’t alone, Wil seemed more than eager to fuel the flames of Techno’s indignance. Squinting, Techno focuses on all the non-politic-y things he said, like some examples from his life (for the politics), the way their little village is run (for more politics)- oh, they had a discussion about accountants. It’s apparently a dirty job back at Wil’s place. Techno can’t help cringing, as he is still, technically, an accountant for most of his village, even if on forced vacation right now. 

“Hey,”- Wil’s whisper-shout interrupts his disgust- “Are you awake?” 

“No.” 

“Oh, okay.” 

Some time passes. 

“You sound awake though,”- confused. Of all things, he has the nerve to be confused. Did he drink away his brain yesterday? 

Rising on his elbows and turning to the source of noise with unjustifiable amounts of difficulty, Techno glares. They had covered the room in their matts, the sun filtering through now open shutters not rivaling Wil’s smile in brightness: “That’s cause I am, Wilbur, I just don’t want to be.” 

“Oooh. Yeah, that makes sense. I tried to wake up Phil, but he swore at me,”- there’s that child-like innocence again. One person has no business being both so killable and so protectiveness inspiring at the same time, and one of these days, Techno will try to not feel upset with Phil when such pure offendedness is aimed at him, but today is not that. 

“Wow. That’s awful, Wilbur,”- maybe because it’s morning, maybe because he intended it that way, his voice is as flat as the sides of a knife- “In Galactic?”- because Techno’s head hurts hard enough for it to be the case. 

“Yeah, I think. But it’s okay, I’m not mad at him,”- Wil looks down between them, reaching out to pat Phil’s hair- “He needs his sleep.” 

“I also need my sleep. Can you do that? Is it like, a possibility for me, to use your chosen one powers to beat insomnia?”- he’s pretty sure it’s about nine in the morning, which is ridiculously early for how late into the night they drank. 

“Hmm, I’m not sure,”- Wil hunches, putting a hand not busy with Phil up to his chin in consideration- “I have an idea, though I don’t think you’ll like it.” 

“Try me.” 

“I think I remember that one word that Phil uses, for us sleepy boys? When we’re _ really sleepy _ -”- having switched to a very genuine, very pitiful voice, he switches back just as fast- “-but can’t fall asleep on our own?” 

Techno hides his head in his knuckles. The Galactic word Wil is talking about is dancing just at the edge of his mind, almost making him groan with the unexpected pain, and he’s just so done with yesterday’s Phil’s magic bullshit, but- 

“Yeah, whatever, go for it, just try not to fall asleep yourself, we need someone to stand guard,”- he lays down, getting comfy, and rummages his brain for things Wil can do all alone- “You can try to come up with some rules for Theft, if you want, I can grade you on how comprehensive they are when I wake up. Or do whatever you like, actually. Would that be good?” 

He gets no answer other than faint sounds of intense movement. Then, with a cheerful Galactic word exploding his mind, he starts to lose his grip. Who knew traveling with two mages could be so beneficial. 

**. . . . . . . .**

They (the mages) prove to be truly lifesavers, as otherwise they (as a unit) would not be able to pay the inn owner for overstaying  _ or _ send the letter Techno writes to get back to his accountant duties (and reassure his friends, mostly Calvin, that he didn’t die or get himself into trouble, or rather that he did get into trouble but it’s cool now. he can’t wait for them to laugh at him in their reply) for Wil’s expenses. He still doesn’t look forward to joining them in knowledge, but hey. He dug this grave, he gets to lie in it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yoooo this was a ride  
> wondering what wil's purpose is in this world? he gotta incite the cave update alongside the rest of mcyt, who are all groups of around three in the about same-ish configuration as the sbi, and he's also got op powers just like all the other chosen ones, and for the future the sbi are planned to a) learn how to exist without each other via going apart periodically and b) meet tommy (another chosen one), tubbo and fundy, and also quackity who wasn't assigned by the galaxy but decided to tag along, feel free to ask questions if you have them, there's no judgment here cause I'm too stupid to judge, a himbo i am if not for noodle arms, but yeah! woooo read my shit? (past tense) Nice! tell me things

**Author's Note:**

> oh and you still have permission to kill worddumb, i have achieved greatness with this work as far as i'm concerned and can go in peace


End file.
